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Plays  for  a  People's  Theatre.      I. 


The    Fight    for    Freedom 


«/M, 


The  Fight  for  Freedom 


A  Flay  in  Four  Acts 

By 

DOUGLAS  GOLDRING 


With  a  Preface 

BY 

HENRI  BARBUSSE 


W 


New  York 

THOMAS  SELTZER 

1920 


Copyright,  1920, 
By   Tliomas   Seltzer,   Inc. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
All  Rights  Reserved 


PR 


Grfa4  f 


19<iO 


PREFACE 

When  the  International  People's  Theatre  is 
founded,  one  of  the  first  plays  it  ought  to  put 
on,  if  it  means  to  do  educational  as  well  as  artistic 
work,  is  Douglas  Goldring's  beautiful  drama, 
**The  Fight  for  Freedom.'' 

Not  that  this  drama  is  a  panegyric  of  Social- 
ism. On  the  contrary,  it  might  almost  be  said  to 
be  a  criticism  of  the  Socialist  party.  Its  merit, 
its  strength,  resides  in  its  bringing  out  the  pathetic 
tragedy  of  the  harsh  truth  underlying  the  obscure 
drama  that  divides  humanity  in  two. 

**The  Fight  for  Freedom"  puts  before  us  the 
idea  that  at  the  present  time  dominates  and  in- 
fluences all  other  ideas — the  idea  of  revolution. 
It  is  set  in  its  proper  place  here,  taken  at  its 
source,  at  the  very  heart  of  man.  Thence  it 
tumbles  like  an  impetuous  torrent  and  dashes  into 
a  river. 

For  it  is  not  enough,  no,  it  is  not  enough  to 
aspire  towards  the  happiness  of  the  people,  to- 
wards the  deep,  radical  transformation  of  the  old 
regime  which  oppresses  them.    It  is  not  enough 

944080 


PREFACE 

even  to  work  for  it.  It  is  necessary  besides,  it 
is  necessary  above  all  else,  to  feel  in  the  depths 
of  oneself  the  absolute  accord  between  soul  and 
action.  As  long  as  we  have  not  achieved  this  in 
ourselves,  the  liberty  of  the  world  will  remain  a 
mere  empty  phrase. 

Humanity  has  not  yet  attained  to  the  heights  of 
its  ideas.  This  is  the  source  of  all  evil.  If  in  our 
deeds,  in  our  very  blood,  we  had  had  the  same 
horror  of  war  that  we  had  in  our  souls,  the  war 
would  not  have  happened.  If  all  who  to-day 
dream  of  liberation  and  harmony  were  intimately, 
practically,  in  accord  with  their  dream,  the  people, 
the  vast  mass  of  slaves,  would  be  quickly  set  free. 

But  those  who  are  most  determined  to  estab- 
lish the  social  order  are  sometimes  the  very  ones 
who  spread  the  germ  of  social  disorder,  because 
they  have  not  in  themselves,  in  their  own  lives, 
that  grandeur,  that  clear  vision,  which  they  wish 
to  inspire  in  others. 

It  must  be  said :  the  ideal  of  justice  and  of  rea- 
son towards  which  humanity,  still  blind,  is  ob- 
scurely struggling,  hovers  in  clouds  tragically  far 
away. 

Written  in  a  style  brilliant,  concise,  profoundly 
stirring,  Douglas  Goldring's  work  is  one  of  those 
which  will  help  to  bring  the  ideal  dowm  to  its  only 
fatherland,  the  earth  of  human  beings. 

Henri  Barbussb. 


INTRODUCTION 

The  play  which  follows  was  written  in  an  intellectual 
atmosphere  wholly  alien  from  that  of  London,  in  a 
country  separated  by  a  good  many  miles  of  sea-water 
from  the  one  in  which  its  scenes  are  laid.  It  was  written 
in  loneliness  and  exile  during  the  last  three  months  of 
the  war,  at  a  time  when  our  Anglo-Prussian  overlords, 
in  view  of  their  approaching  victory,  had  definitely  dis- 
carded their  masks. 

The  outlook  for  Democracy,  in  the  autumn  of  1918, 
was  indeed  horrifying.  But  even  then,  in  spite  of  the 
*  *  great  lie  barrage, ' '  there  were  plenty  of  signs,  beneath 
the  surface,  that  the  plain  people  all  over  Europe  were 
beginning  to  wake  up  to  a  tardy  realisation  of  the  way 
in  which  their  rulers  had  betrayed  them.  In  some 
countries  the  proletarian  movement  was  taking  one  form, 
in  other  countries  it  had  assumed  a  widely  different 
character.  In  Eussia  the  Bolsheviki,  in  Ireland  the 
Sinn  Feiners,  in  Germany  the  Spartacus  group,  in 
England  and  in  America  the  Labour  movements  formed 
rallying-points  for  men  and  women  who  stiU  retained 
their  humanity  and  their  idealism  after  the  corrupting 
influence  of  four  years  of  war.  The  seeds  of  life  and  of 
love  were  springing  up  once  again  in  a  world  frozen  by 
materialism  and  rendered  callous  by  commercial  greed. 
It  did  not  seem  to  matter  very  much  what  particular 

5 


6  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

label  happened  to  be  borne  by  these  armies  of  the 
Future — whether  they  were  called  Pacifists,  Tolstoyans, 
Communists,  Bolshevists,  Quakers,  Reds,  Sinn  Feiners, 
Christians,  Spartacists,  or  Trade  Unionists.  The  spirit 
underlying  every  one  of  them  was  the  same.  It  was  the 
spirit  which,  throughout  history,  has  inspired  martyrs 
and  pioneers  in  the  cause  of  human  progress.  All  these 
diverse  kinds  of  people  and  parties  were  united  in  their 
determination  to  have  done  once  and  for  ever  with  the 
past ;  and  to  break  down  the  evil  system  which  for  four 
years  had  forced  brother  to  slay  brother  to  enable  knaves 
to  make  their  fortunes.  All  looked  forward  with  pa- 
tience and  with  hope  to  the  dawn  of  the  New  Day. 

Viewed  from  my  vantage  point  in  that  sorrowful 
Western  Island  where  British  Labour  allows  British 
Militarism  to  train  a  conscript  army  in  the  art  of  strike- 
breaking, the  situation  in  my  native  land  seemed  in 
some  ways  darker  than  in  any  other.  England  has  al- 
ways been  the  most  harrowing  of  countries  to  those  of 
her  children  who  really  love  her.  She  is  incorrigible! 
She  is  able  to  shed  the  blood  of  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  her  sons  without,  apparently,  turning  a  hair,  with- 
out parting  with  a  single  one  of  her  illusions.  The 
Englishman  is  a  veritable  Candide  among  the  peoples. 
Absolutely  nothing  seems  able  to  shake  the  belief  of 
John  Bull,  the  jaunty  optimist,  that  everything  is  for 
the  best  in  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds! 

As  a  nation  we  English  love  comfort  and  loathe  sud- 
den changes — hence,  perhaps,  our  passion  for  compro- 
mise, for  half-truths,  watered-down  facts,  and  "official" 
journalism.  We  are  a  race  of  intellectual  rabbits;  and 
rather  than  face  the  truth  in  our  own  minds  we  scamper 


THE   FIGHT  FOR   FREEDOM  7 

for  safety  into  all  the  funk-holes  which  our  Government, 
through  its  bought  press,  is  astute  enough  to  provide 
for  us.  This  vice  of  moral  and  intellectual  cowardice — 
whicl  under  the  guise  of  ''moderation"  we  venerate  as 
our  distinctive  virtue — runs  through  the  whole  of  our 
national  life,  and  even,  alas !  permeates  our  Labour  move- 
ment. Thus  the  first  struggle  which  awaits  those  men 
and  women  in  the  English  Labour  movement  who  really 
stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  their  brothers  and  sisters 
on  the  Continent  of  Europe,  will,  very  probably,  be  with 
the  "leaders"  of  their  own  party. 

And  there  are  so  many  people  in  England,  particularly 
among  the  intelligentzia,  who  "take  up  progress,"  or 
' '  take  up  Socialism  "  as  a  change  from  taking  up  Jazzing 
or  "art,"  and  with  the  same  essential  frivolity!  It  is 
these  who,  when  that  red  dawn  really  breaks  for  which 
they  profess  to  be  sighing,  will  be  the  first  to  cry  out  in 
alarm.  In  England  the  Margaret  Lamberts  are  many, 
and  the  Eleanor  Lamberts  are  few. 

As  I  have  already  explained,  my  first  attempt  at 
writing  a  play  was  made  in  an  atmosphere  and  under 
conditions  which,  to  me,  at  any  rate,  were  peculiarly 
conducive  to  thinking  internationally.  I  was  a  stranger 
in  a  neutral  country — far  away  from  the  ardours  of 
English  Labour  politics  and  the  heated  discussions  of 
the  London  art  coteries,  England  seemed  scarcely  any 
nearer  to  me  than  Hungary,  Switzerland,  or  America. 

It  was  not  until  "The  Fight  for  Freedom"  was  at 
last  completed  that  it  occurred  to  me  that,  in  all  proba- 
bility, there  did  not  exist  in  England  any  "Drama 
League,"  or  theatrical  organisation  of  any  kind  what- 
ever, which  would  be  in  the  least  likely  to  put  it  on. 


8  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

For,  apart  from  all  questions  as  to  its  merits  or  demerits, 
it  belonged  to  a  school  of  play  which  at  the  present  time 
is  definitely  "not  done."  English  theatrical  circles  do 
not  want  internationalist  plays,  or  plays  on  political  or 
social  themes  which  reflect  the  ideas  of  to-day,  though  I 
believe  large  sections  of  the  '  *  plain  people ' '  in  England 
want  them  very  badly.  The  new  "movements"  in  our 
theatrical  world  concern  themselves  chiefly  with  gentle 
revolutions  in  regard  to  scenery  and  stage  lighting. 
Revolutionary  thought,  in  the  plays  which  are  produced, 
is  the  very  last  thing  which  is  either  desired  or  wel- 
comed. But  if  this  was — and  still  is — the  situation  at 
home,  instinct  told  me  that  the  same  state  of  things  did 
not  prevail  beyond  our  own  borders.  It  occurred  to  me 
that  my  play,  in  spite  of  its  many  imperfections,  might 
very  likely  have  a  friendly  reception  on  the  Continent. 
Without,  therefore,  waiting  for  rebuffs  in  London,  I 
sent  the  MS.  to  a  well-known  Swiss  journalist  who  has 
translated  some  of  my  novels  into  German.  Within  a 
week  or  two  I  received  from  her  a  letter  full  of  con- 
gratulation and  excitement.  She  prophesied  a  great 
success  for  the  play,  and  set  to  work  at  once  on  her 
translation.  It  has  been  printed  in  Die  Weissen  Blatter, 
and  will  probably  be  produced  by  a  Frankfort  theatre 
this  winter.  A  little  later  on  I  signed  an  agreement  for 
an  Hungarian  translation,  which  has  been  completed  and 
forwarded  to  Buda-Pesth. 

Now  the  important  fact  underlying  these  experiences 
should  be  sufficiently  obvious  to  those  who  have  studied 
the  recent  tendencies  of  the  stage.  It  can  be  summed 
up  in  a  word.  With  the  exception  of  England,  almost 
all  the  countries  of  Europe,  not  excluding  Ireland,  now 


THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  9 

possess  at  least  the  rudiments  of  a  "people's  theatre." 
In  England,  however,  though  we  use  the  phrase  glibly 
enough  and  though  most  of  our  new  societies  and  leagues 
are  chatty  about  that '  *  new  spirit ' '  in  the  theatre  which 
they  propose  to  infuse,  of  the  reality  underlying  the 
words  there  is  at  present  hardly  a  trace.  The  com- 
mercial manager  and  the  devotee  of  "art  for  art's  sake" 
still  reign  supreme;  and  between  them  they  still  crush 
the  life  out  of  all  the  budding  English  playwrights. 
Instead  of  a  **new  spirit"  they  only  offer  us  that  ancient 
bugbear  the  "art  nouveau"  spirit.  England  is  still 
waiting  for  its  "people's  theatre." 

In  Russia,  in  Germany,  in  Austria,  in  Holland  the 
theatre  is*  the  great  medium  through  which  the  unifying 
ideas  of  internationalism,  brotherhood,  and  detestation 
of  war  are  receiving  full  and  free  expression.  When  is 
English  Labour  going  to  recognise  its  importance,  and 
run  a  theatre  of  its  own  ? 

My  conception  of  a  people's  theatre  is  of  a  theatre 
run  on  a  co-operative  basis,  a  theatre  in  which  all  the 
ideas  which  really  interest  the  proletariat  may  receive 
the  fullest  and  freest  expression,  a  theatre  which  is 
youthful  and  alive.  The  people  to  control  such  a  theatre 
must,  it  seems  to  me,  be  people  accustomed  to  do  jobs  ''') 
of  work  connected  with  the  stage,  and  their  first  task 
must  be,  politely  but  firmly,  to  push  the  God-dam-art 
crowd  outside.  When  the  last  "artistic"  person  has 
been  gently  removed,  Art  may  have  a  chance  to  breathe. 
Probably  the  first  people's  theatre  in  England  will  have 
to  give  its  production  in  some  badly-ventilated  cellar, 
or  hideous  East  End  parish  hall.  This  will  be  very 
amusing,  and  everyone  connected  with  the  enterprise 


10  THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM 

will  enjoy  himself  hugely  and  will  be  tempted  to  cling 
to  his  cellar  like  grim  death.  But,  personally,  I  do  not 
see  any  virtue  in  cellars  for  their  own  sake.  Everything 
must,  of  course,  have  a  beginning,  but  the  people's 
theatre  should  play  far  too  important  a  part  in  Eng- 
land's national  life  not  to  grow  very  quickly  beyond 
hole-and-corner  makeshifts.  I  should  like  our  first  peo- 
ple's theatre  to  be  the  most  splendid  playhouse  in  Eng- 
land; and  I  should  like  it  to  be  equipped  to  give  the 
people  every  kind  of  show  from  the  simplest  to  the  most 
magnificent.  It  will  inevitably  be  a  revolutionary  (and 
hence  an  internationalist)  theatre  if  it  is  to  be  worthy 
of  its  name.  And  it  will  put  on  all  the  good  revolution- 
ary plays  which  will  be  written  in  England,  and  which 
have  been  written  abroad.  But  there  is  no  reason  that 
I  can  see  why  it  should  not  also  produce  masrnificent 
ballets,  and  Shaw  and  Shakespeare  impartially.  If 
the  English  people's  theatre,  when  it  is  started,  is  only 
filled  with  the  new  spirit — the  spirit  of  revolutionary 
idealism  and  ardent  aspiration  towards  that  new  day 
which  must  dawn  before  long,  even  in  England — nothing 
else  really  matters.  Then,  at  last,  we  may  look  forward 
with  confidence  to  the  long-heralded  "renaissance  of 
the  English  drama"  which  is  now  so  dismally  overdue. 
I  believe  that  great  days  are  coming  for  the  theatre, 
all  over  the  world,  and  that  no  proletarian  movement 
can  afford  to  neglect  it.  I  should  like  to  see  the  T.L.P., 
and  the  U.D.C.,  and  the  N.U.R. — ^the  miners,  the  trans- 
port workers,  the  postmen,  and  the  police — all  interest- 
ing themselves  in  the  establishment  of  a  Labour  theatre. 
I  should  like  to  see  the  Clyde  starting  a  theatre  of  it« 
own  on  the  lines  of  the  Dublin  Abbey  Theatre.    It  would 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  U 

soon  produce  a  school  of  playwrights,  just  as  the  Abbey- 
Theatre  has  produced  a  school  of  playwrights.  Synge 
did  not  create  the  Abbey  Theatre ;  the  Abbey  Theatre — 
through  Mr.  Yeats — discovered  Synge. 

I  believe  this  latter  point  to  be  very  important.  When 
some  months  ago  I  first  began  trying  to  interest  my 
acquaintances  in  the  project  of  starting  "The  People's 
Theatre  Society,"  I  was  frequently  met  by  the  objection, 
"Oh,  but  there  are  no  plays!"  My  contention  was — 
and  still  is — that  if  an  organisation  can  only  be  formed 
which  will  produce  them,  the  plays  will  quickly  enough 
make  their  appearance. 

Playwriting  is  "in  the  air."     It  is  impossible  that:^ 
authors  of  the  younger  generation  who  have  ideas  to  '' 
express  should  long  resist  the  temptation  to  express  them  N 
in  dramatic  form.    A  wave  of  interest  in,  and  enthusi- 
asm for  the  theatre  is  sweeping  across  Europe,  carrying 
with  it  almost  every  writer  who  has  not  allowed  himself 
to  escape  from  life  into  the  stagnation  of  some  artistic 
backwater.     The  plays  will  be  written.     I  hope  that 
"The  People's  Theatre  Society"  will  help  to  bring  them 
to  light,  and,  by  giving  trial  performances  of  them,  do 
some  of  the  preliminary  spadework  which  will  be  neces- 
sary before  the  people 's  theatre  proper  can  be  established 
in  England  on  a  permanent  basis. 

DOUGLAS  GOLDRING. 

August,  1919. 


THE  PEOPLE  IN  THE  PLAY 

The  Very  Rev.  Samuel  Slaughter,  Dean  of  Devizes. 

Mrs.  Slaughter. 

Mrs.  Lambert. 

Margaret  Lambert  (her  daughter). 

Miss  Eleanor  Lambert  (Margaret's  aunt). 

Captain  Michael  Henderson. 

Philip  Henderson. 

Oliver  Beeching. 

Two  Maidservants. 

The  action  takes  place  in  London  during  the  first  week 
of  August,  1918. 

The  scene  of  the  first  and  fourth  Acts  is  a  room  in  Miss 
Lambert's  hou^e  in  Cheyne  Walk;  of  the  second 
Act,  a  room  in  Philip  Henderson  's  flat  in  Campden 
Hill;  of  the  third  Act,  the  drawing-room  of  Mrs. 
Lambert's  hmise  in  Kensington  Square, 


12 


The  Fight  for  Freedom 

ACT  I 

Tlie  dining-room  of  Miss  Eleanor  Lambert's  Jioiise  in 
Cheyne  Walk,  Chelsea.  Fireplace,  left  centre.  At 
tJie  hack  of  the  room  is  a  long  table  covered  with  a 
white  linen  tablecloth — loaded  with  things  to  eat 
and  drink,  and  shining  with  plates,  glasses,  and 
decanters.  Miss  Lambert  is  giving  a  small  evening 
party. 

The  room  is  comfortably  furnished,  the  pictures  are 
good,  and  the  plain  wall-paper,  of  a  curious  shade 
of  peacock  blue,  indicates  that  the  owner  of  the 
house  is  not  unmindful  that  Whistler  was  once  one 
of  her  neighbours. 

When  the  curtain  rises  most  of  the  guests  have  finished 
their  supper  and  gone  upstairs;  but  five  of  them — 
The  Dean  of  Devizes  and  his  wife,  Mrs.  Lambert, 
Margaret  Lambert,  and  Philip  Henderson — are 
still  eating. 

Philip  Henderson  and  Margaret  are  discovered  stand- 
ing in  front  of  the  buffet,  with  their  backs  to  the 
audience.  The  Dean,  Mrs.  Lambert,  and  Mrs. 
Slaughter,  holding  coffee-cups  in  their  hands  and 
munching  sandwiches,  form  a  group  in  the  front 
centre  of  the  stage. 

Mrs.  Lambert  is  a  stout,  good-natured  woman  of  fifty- 
five.  She  wears  a  blonde  wig,  and  her  habitual  ex- 
pression denotes  helplessness,  placidity,  and  tru^t. 
Her  trust  in  The  Dean  op  Devizes  has  remained 
13 


14  THE   FIGHT  FOR   FREEDOM 

unshaken  for  fidly  thirty  years.  In  her  religious 
life  he  takes  the  place  which  is  usually  accorded  to 
the  Deity. 

The  Dean  is  an  imposing  figure.  His  hair  is  white,  his 
face  rubicund,  his  voice  loud  and  dogmatic.  He  is 
proud  of  his  military  hearing.  (He  was  a  subaltern 
in  a  cavalry  regiment  previous  to  his  ordina- 
tion.) 

Mrs.  Slaughter  is  a  small,  wiry  woman  with  an  acid 
manner,  a  thin  penetrating  voice,  and  a  perpetual 
cold  in  the  head.  Her  clothes  have  a  suggestion  of 
the  uniform  about  them.  They  are  not  a  uniform, 
however.  She  is  a  patron  of  various  war  activities, 
and  in  particular  presides  over  a  nursing  hoyne  for 
officers  suffering  from  shell-shock. 

The  Dean  (irritably,  looking  into  his  coffee-cup).  If 
there  is  one  thing  I  dislike  more  than  another  it  is  luke- 
warm coffee. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Do  put  that  down,  Samuel,  and  have 
a  glass  of  port  wine ?    Do! 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Samuel  has  taken  King  Geoi^e's 
pledge,  Mary.  He  will  touch  no  alcohol  till  the  end  of 
the  war  (sniff). 

Mrs.  Lambert  (looking  up  at  The  Dean  with  dewy 
eyes).     Oh,  that  is  splendid  of  you. 

The  Dean.  Not  at  all.  The  least  one  can  do,  in  my 
position,  is  to  set  a  good  example.  I  think  the  public 
indifference  to  the  King's  patriotic  self-sacrifice  in  re- 
gard to  drink  is  simply  scandalous.  The  whole  nation 
ought  to  have  followed  his  lead.  ('The  Dean  at  this 
moment  happens  to  look  over  his  shoulder.    There  is  an 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  15 

awkward  pause  while  they  watch  Phiup  Henderson 
pouring  some  soda  water  into  a  tumbler  containing  a  very 
little  whisky,  and  handing  it  to  Margaret  J 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Really,  when  it  comes  to  girls  tak- 
ing whiskies  and  sodas,  Mary,  it  is  time  to  call  a  halt 
(sniff). 

The  Dean.  I  must  say  I  am  surprised  at  you,  Mary, 
allowing  such  a  thing!  I  don't  like  the  way  Margaret 
is  going  on  at  all.  I  baptised  her  and  I  prepared  her 
for  confirmation,  so  perhaps  I  may  be  forgiven — er — for 
mentioning  the  matter ! 

Mrs.  Lambert  (reduced  alm/)st  to  tears).  My  dear 
Samuel,  what  can  I  do?  I  don't  know  what  has  come 
over  the  girls  since  the  war  started.  They  have  become 
absolutely  unmanageable  as  far  as  their  poor  mothers 
are  concerned. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  I  must  say  many  of  them  have  been 
perfectly  splendid — the  girls  in  my  hospital  (sniff),  for 
example. 

Mrs.  Lambert  (Iridling).  Well,  I'm  told  that  nurs- 
ing is  by  no  means  all  that  it  might  be ;  neither  is  show- 
ing Westminster  Abbey  to  the  Anzacs.  As  for  this  * '  land 
army"  business,  it  seems  to  give  them  all  a  prance  like 
young  cart-horses.  And  I  must  say  I  do  not  like  the 
Wacks.  They  cross  their  legs  in  their  mother's  drawing- 
rooms  and  blow  cigarette  smoke  in  everyone's  face! 
Then,  again,  I  disapprove  of  the  way  they  drive  motor 
cars  all  over  the  country,  with  young  staff  officers  sitting 
next  to  them.  (With  heat.)  I  can't  believe  it's  right,  even 
if  a  war  is  on.  I'm  glad  Margaret  has  taken  up  art, 
even  though  it  has  brought  her  into  contact  with  some 
odd  people. 


16  THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

The  Dean.  Well,  well,  there  is  no  accounting  for 
taste,  Mary.  But  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have 
preferred  your  daughter  to  go  in  for  some  branch  of  war 
work,  particularly  as  she  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  a 
soldier  who  is  gallantly  defending  his  country.  If  some 
of  the  specimens  who  are  here  to-night  may  be  taken 
as  examples,  her  new  acquaintances  are  certainly 
questionable — some  of  them  look  highly  undesir- 
able! 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Eleanor  and  I  have  known  each 
other  for  many  years;  but  I  must  say  I  think  she  is 
hardly  the  right  influence  for  Margaret  just  now. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  I  don't  see  what  I  can  do,  Janey. 
Margaret  is  devoted  to  Eleanor,  and  she  considers  herself 
quite  old  enough  to  choose  her  own  associates,  apart  from 
the  fact  that  Eleanor  is  the  child's  aunt! 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  I'm  very  fond  of  Eleanor  myself, 
Mary;  but  you  must  admit  that  she  was  always  most 
unbalanced. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  How  can  I  interfere?  I  try  my 
hardest  to  keep  pace  with  Margaret;  but  mothers  have 
not  got  a  chance  nowadays.  It's  no  good.  If  you  were 
a  mother,  Janey,  you  would  understand. 

The  Dean.  H'm!  I  think  I  had  better  have  a  little 
chat  with  Margaret  later  on  in  the  evening.  I  don't 
like  all  those  writers  and  painters — those  so-called  ar- 
tists. How  did  they  get  their  exemptions,  I  ask  myself? 
They  looked  to  me  like  Socialists — pro-Germans,  even 
conscientious  objectors!  It  isn't  fair  to  Michael  to  let 
the  girl  run  wild.  After  all,  I  baptised  Margaret  my- 
self and  I  prepared  her  for  confirmation !  perhaps  I  had 
better  go  over  and  speak  to  her  now  .  .  . 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  17 

Mrs.  Lambert  (in  an  ecstasy  of  nervousness).  Oh, 
please  don't,  Samuel.  At  any  rate  not  this  evening; 
she  would  never  forgive  me.  And,  after  all,  Michael 
will  be  home  to-morrow. 

The  Dean.  What?  Michael  home  to-morrow?  Why 
was  I  not  informed,  may  I  ask? 

Mrs.  Lambert.  We  only  heard  yesterday,  ourselves. 
He  ought  to  be  with  us  to-morrow  morning.  He  got 
seven  days'  leave  quite  unexpectedly.    Isn't  it  splendid? 

The  Dean.  Well,  I  'm  delighted  to  hear  it — delighted. 
I  hope  he'll  give  Margaret  a  sound  talking  to.  (SlUy.) 
You  know  it  would  be  the  best  thing  that  could  possibly 
happen  if  they  were  married  before  he  goes  back. 

Mrs.  Lambert  (with  gloomy  forebodings).  He  has 
been  away  a  long  time — eighteen  months.  I  am  afraid 
he  will  find  Margaret  very  much  changed. 

The  Dean.    Changed?    In  what  way? 

Mrs.  Slaughter.    It's  not  difficult  to  guess  (sniff). 

Mrs.  Lambert  (with  a  sigh  of  perplexity  and  help- 
lessness). There's  no  denying  that  Margaret  has  al- 
tered very  much  during  the  past  year  or  more.  She 
comes  out  with  the  most  extraordinary  ideas  sometimes 
— revolutionary  ideas!    She  quite  frightens  me. 

The  Dean.  This  is  really  scandalous,  scandalous!  I 
thought  those  unkempt-looking  men  and  those  disorderly 
women  were  tainted  with  pacifism  and  revolution.  I 
knew  it !  I  am  never  mistaken !  They  are  the  enemies 
of  all  decency  and  order,  those  sort  of  people  .  .  . 

Margaret  and  Philip  Henderson  leave  the  "buffet  car- 
rying their  plates  and  glasses,  and  overhear  the  end 
of  The  Dean's  remarks. 


18  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

Philip  Henderson  is  a  man  of  thirty-six,  clean-sJuiven, 
wears  eyeglasses.  He  Jias  an  easy,  jovial  manner 
and  an  outlook  of  'kum/)roiis  cynicism  of  the  kind 
which  flourishes  in  the  Treasury,  of  which  he  is  a 
first-class  clerk. 

Margaret  Lambert  is  a  very  beautiful,  fair  girl,  medium 
height.  She  is  ju^t  twenty-two,  and  her  character 
is  as  yet  unformed,  except  in  so  far  as  a  capacity 
for  capturing  male  admiration  constitutes  a  part 
of  it.  Her  outlook  on  life  is  eager  and  idealistic, 
and  she  is  innocent  and  unspoiled  without  being 
ignorant. 

Philip  Henderson  (offering  a  plate  of  sandwiches  to 
Dean  Slaughter  j.     Have  a  sandwich,  sir.    Foie  gras! 

The  Dean  (sternly).     Thank  you  (takes  two). 

Margaret.  Oh,  do  tell  me  who  the  **  enemies  of 
decency  and  order"  are?    I  was  thrilled. 

The  Dean.  These  traitors  of  Socialists,  my  dear.  I 
hope  you  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  them. 

Margaret  (laughing).  Now  at  last  I  know  what 
"landing  troops  to  restore  order"  means.  Of  course  it 
means  sending  soldiers  to  suppress  Socialism.  I  wonder 
what  would  happen  if  the  soldiers,  instead  of  suppress- 
ing it,  were  to  catch  the  germ  themelves? 

The  Dean.  The  soldiers — our  soldiers,  at  any  rate — 
have  a  great  deal  too  much  sense,  Margaret.  You  ask 
Michael  when  you  see  him. 

Margaret.  H'm,  yes.  I  suppose  Michael  wouldn't 
be  likely  to  catch  the  germ. 

Tece  Dean.  He  certainly  would  not.  Nor  will  he  be 
pleased  to  know  that  you  have  been  consorting  with 
Socialists  in  his  absence. 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  19 

Margaret  (gaily).  But  I'm  a  Socialist,  Dean.  In 
fact,  I  believe  I'm  a  Bolshevik!  Whatever  shall  I  do? 
I  can  hardly  leave  off  consorting  with  myself. 

Mrs.  Lambert  (in  despair).  Margaret,  don't  be  so 
foolish! 

The  Dean.  You  and  I  will  have  to  have  a  talk  to- 
gether, my  child.  This  is  no  laughing  matter.  I  feel  a 
deep  sense  of  responsibility.  Remember  I  baptised  you 
and  prepared  you  for  confirmation. 

('Philip  and  Margaret  make  faces  at  one  another.) 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  I  really  think  we  ou^t  to  go 
back  to  the  drawing-room.  Eleanor  will  be  looking 
for  us. 

Mrs.  Lambert.    Yes,  I'm  sure  we  ought. 

(Exit  The  Dean,  Mrs.  Slaughter,  Mrs.  Lambert^ 

Margaret.  Phew!  Stupid  old  geyser!  He  talks 
about  Socialists  as  if  they  were  criminals!  What  busi- 
ness is  it  of  his — or  of  Michael's  either — whom  I  choose 
to  consort  with!  I'm  not  a  schoolgirl  any  longer.  Mi- 
chael hasn't  won  me  in  a  raffle.  How  can  I  help  it  if  the 
old  fool  "baptised  me  and  prepared  me  for  confirma- 
tion"? (slie  mimics  The  Dean's  tones.) 

Philip.  Margaret,  I'm  afraid  you've  no  proper  re- 
spect -for  the  dear  Dean. 

Margaret  (panting  prettily,  tut  really  very  much 
annoyed).  Oh,  damn  the  dear  Dean!  I  think  it's  too 
bad  the  way  mother  talks  about  me  to  that  old  figure- 
head, as  if  I  were  a  child  of  six.  Surely  I  'm  old  enough 
to  choose  my  own  friends!  Besides,  I'm  years  older 
than  she  is !  I  wonder  why  it  is  that  parents  will  never 
realise  that  their  children  are  their  seniors.    We  begin, 


20  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

mentally,  at  the  point  where  they  leave  off.  (Sighs.)  I 
suppose  that  is   what    makes   everything   so   difficult! 

Philip  (walks  to  buffet  and  pours  some  whisky  from 
a  decanter,  measuring  the  amount  carefully).  Mustn't 
exceed  my  ration! 

Margaret.  However,  it's  just  as  well  for  the  family 
that  they  should  have  one  link  with  the  future.  When 
the  social  revolution  breaks  out  in  England  they  will 
rush  to  us  for  help.  And  what  will  the  Dean  do  then — 
poor  thing ! 

Philip  (chuckling).  What,  that  bally  old  revolution 
stunt  still  going  strong!  I  suppose  they  are  all  devils 
for  merit,  these  geniuses  with  red  ties.  But  it  seems  a 
pity  they  don 't  do  a  bit  more  and  talk  a  bit  less, 

Margaret  (a^  if  repeating  a  lesson).  Well,  at  all 
events,  they  have  ideas  in  their  heads  and  something  to 
talk  about.  They  are  real  people;  they  think  things 
out  for  themselves.  They  don't  take  their  ideas  ready- 
made  from  the  leading  articles  in  the  Daily  Mail!  They 
haven't  only  one  dreary  set  of  parrot-cries.  They  have 
the  courage  of  their  opinions,  too.  In  this  war  for 
freedom  they  are  the  only  people  who  are  not  slaves, 
who  still  have  ideals  and  who  are  trying  to  save  the 
remnants  of  humanity,  when  the  world  has  gone  mad, 
and  our  boasted  civilisation  .  .  . 

Philip.  ...  is  crumbling  to  pieces  beneath  our  feet! 
Oh,  my  dear  girl,  don't  go  on !  I  can  do  all  that  patter 
standing  on  my  head.  In  my  youth,  for  my  sins,  I  was 
a  member  of  the  Fabian  Society — I,  even  I ! 

Margaret  (sweetly).  More  shame  to  you  then,  that's 
all  I  can  say.  (Starting  off  again.)  We  went  into  this 
"war  for  liberty'*  with  fine  ideals — at  least  the  nation 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  21 

did.  Wliat  are  we  fighting  for  now  ? — for  coal  and  iron, 
and  indemnities,  and  annexations,  just  like  our  enemies ! 
The  whole  world  is  enslaved  by  militarist  governments. 
If  even  the  Fabians  have  lost  their  faith  and  thrown 
over  their  old  beliefs,  no  wonder  the  mob  has  been 
swept  off  its  feet.  But  there  are  some  who  have  stood 
firm. 

Phtlip  (ivitJi  sxidden  jeeling,  and  also  witJi  a  sense  of 
dramatic  effect).  There  are,  indeed.  .  .  .  Their  bones 
lie  scattered  round  the  ruins  of  Ypres.  But  for  a  lucky- 
chance  Michael's  dead  body  would  be  lying  there,  too. 
But,  I  suppose,  you  never  think  of  that. 

Margaret.  Why  must  you  play  to  the  gallery,  Philip, 
even  when  you  are  talking  alone  to  me?  The  people 
you  would  call  the  peace  cranks  are  the  only  people,  it 
seems  to  me,  who  ever  do  think  of  these  things.  The 
patriots  and  their  press  won't  be  satisfied  till  the  whole 
of  Europe  is  one  vast  graveyard,  and  there  is  no  one  left 
alive  except  munition  makers,  old  men,  women,  children, 
and  a  few  millions  of  lazy  Tjovernment  officials. 

Philip.  Steady,  Margaret.  Pity  the  poor  official — 
S.O.S.! 

Margaret.  All  right;  I'll  let  you  off,  silly.  You  are 
much  too  fat  and  comfortable  to  take  seriously.  But 
come  and  sit  over  here  and  try  to  be  aa  serious  as  you 
can.  I  do  wish  Oliver  Beeching  would  turn  up.  He 
said  he'd  be  late;  but  it's  nearly  half -past  ten.  His 
meeting  must  be  over  by  this  time. 

Phiop.  Meetings!  Oh,  good  Lord,  Margaret,  what 
has  come  over  you?  And  who  is  Oliver  Beeching,  if  I 
may  ask  without  impertinence? 

Margaret.    A  friend  ...  a  great  friend. 


22  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

Philip.  Margaret,  do  you  still  regard  me  as  a  "  great 
friend"  ...  a  real  friend  .  .  .  one  you  can  talk  to 
frankly? 

Margaret.    Yea. 

Philip.  Then,  my  dear  girl  ...  do  set  my  mind  at 
rest.  Is  there  anything  in  all  this  that  will  affect  you 
and  Michael? 

Margaret.  I'm  glad  you  asked  me.  I  didn't  dare 
broach  the  subject  on  my  own  account.  Philip, 
I  am  utterly  miserable  ...  I  don't  know  what  to 
do  .  .  .  but  I  know  I  shall  never  be  able  to  marry 
Michael. 

Philip.    Good  Lord! 

Margaret.  We  should  never  agree.  It  would  be 
hopeless  from  the  start.  I  have  been  going  to  write  to 
him  for  months  past — ^to  break  off  our  engagement.  But 
I  have  kept  on  putting  it  off.  Now  I  must  write  to  him 
to-night,  so  that  he  gets  the  letter  on  his  arrival.  And 
it  seems  so  cruel,  so  heartless.  But  what  can  I  do? 
Surely  it  is  better  to  be  honest. 

Philip.  It  will  be  a  bad  jag  for  the  poor  fellow, 
that's  certain.  But  are  you  sure  it  won't  be  different 
when  you  see  him?  He  has  been  away  a  long  time,  I 
know  .  .  .  and  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind.  Margaret, 
write  to  him  if  you  like,  but  don't  refuse  to  see  him. 
Promise  me  that. 

Margaret.     Oh,  of  course  we  shall  meet  as  usual. 

Philip.  I  don't  mean  **as  usual"  .  .  .  but  some- 
where where  you  can  talk.  Give  the  poor  fellow  his 
chance,  Margaret. 

Margaret.  I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  funk  it.  But  I 
know  it  won't  be  any  use.    So  much  has  happened  dur- 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  23 

ing  the  long  time  he  has  been  away.  I  have  changed  so 
completely.  My  whole  outlook  on  .  .  .  everything,  has 
altered. 

Philip.  Have  you  said  anything  about  this  to  your 
mother  ? 

Margaret.  No,  I  haven't  spoken  about  it  to  anyone 
except  Aunt  Eleanor. 

Philip.     Oh,  Aunt  Eleanor.    And  what  does  she  say? 

Margaret.  Tell  the  truth.  That's  her  invariable 
advice  in  all  the  diflficulties  of  life. 

Philip.  That's  all  very  well  in  the  millennium  .  .  . 
after  you've  had  your  famous  social  revolution  and 
started  your  Bolshevik  republic;  but  it's  sometimes 
deuced  uncomfortable  at  the  present  moment  .  .  .  un- 
less, of  course,  you  do  it  by  instalments. 

Margaret.  Philip,  when  you  see  Michael  at  the  sta- 
tion to-morrow  morning,  couldn't  you  prepare  him  for 
my  letter?  .  .  .  Couldn't  you  tell  him  what  has  hap- 
pened in  your  own  way?  .  .  .  Couldn't  you  give  him  a 
first  instalment  of  the  truth  ? 

Philip  (sighing).  This  is  really  awful  Margaret.  I  'm 
very  fond  of  both  of  you.  You  I've  known  nearly  all 
my  life.  I  look  on  you  already  as  a  sister-in-law.  I'm 
really  not  fitted  for  these  emotional  crises.  I  shall  lose 
my  appetite  completely.    I  shall  become  as  thin  as  a  lath ! 

Margaret  (on  the  verge  of  tears).  What  about  me 
then?  I  don't  know  when  I've  felt  so  utterly  miser- 
able. 

Philip.  I'm  not  an  expert  in  psychology,  my  dear, 
but  even  I  can  see  there's  someone  else  .  .  .  someone 
who  has  had  a  share  in  this  remarkable  change.  How- 
ever, I  shall  ask  no  questions. 


24  THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

(Enter  Miss  Lambert  with  Oliver  Beeching.  Miss 
Lambert  is  a  woman  of  sixty,  grey-Jiaired,  with 
a  thin  and  willowy  figure  and  rather  a  forbidding, 
scornful  expression,  which  disappears  when  she 
smiles.  She  has  a  direct,  occasionally  truculent 
manner,  and  carries  a  face-a-mxiin  as  if  it  were  a 
lethal  weapon.  She  stabs  at  the  air  with  it  when 
she  is  talking.  Oliver  Beeching  is  a  dark,  lithe, 
eager  man  of  thirty,  with  enth%isiastic  eyes  and  a 
preternaturally  serious  manner.) 

Miss  Lambert.  Margaret,  will  you  see  that  Oliver 
has  something  to  eat?  He  has  only  just  turned  up, 
and  as  the  meeting  began  at  seven,  I  don't  suppose 
he's  had  any  dinner.  He's  dreadfully  absent-minded. 
Philip,  this  is  Mr.  Beeching — ^Mr.  Philip  Henderson. 
(They  bow.)  Don't  be  too  long,  Margaret.  We  are 
waiting  for  you  to  sing, 

Margaret  (enthusiastically).  What  was  it  a  meeting 
of  this  evening,  Oliver? 

Oliver.  Oh,  it  called  itself  "The  Freedom  League." 
My  sainted  Sam,  the  Freedom  League!  I  had  to  read 
'em  a  paper  on  *  *  The  Fight  for  Freedom, ' '  Lot  of  damn 
rabbits ! 

Margaret  (laughingly).  Sainted  Sam!  That's  rather 
a  good  name  for  the  Dean. 

Miss  Lambert.  Come  along,  Philip ;  this  won't  inter- 
est you.  To  talk  about  Freedom  to  a  Government  offi- 
cial is  as  cruel  as  pouring  cold  water  on  a  cat. 

(Exit  Philip  Henderson  and  Miss  Lambert.  J 

Margaret  (handing  Oliver  food  and  drink).    I  do 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  25 

wish  I  could  have  been  there  to  hear  you.    "Were  there 
any  interruptions  this  time? 

Oliver  (in  a  vile  temper,  walking  up  and  down  the 
room).  Interruptions!  Good  God,  no!  They  hadn't 
an  interruption  in  *em.  Why,  if  they'd  had  a  rotten 
egg  between  the  lot,  there  wasn't  a  man  in  the  room 
with  the  guts  to  throw  it!  Oh  no,  that  was  the  worst 
of  it.  They  were  all  sympatMsers.  Mild,  be-spectacled 
cranks,  all  busy  turning  the  other  cheek,  and  sighing 
and  blinking  about  liberty  of  conscience !  Call  'emselves 
Labour  men,  too!  Members  of  the  I.L.P, !  Trade 
Unionists!  What  a  crowd!  .  .  .  Now,  what  hope 
Jiave  we  got  of  kicking  together  an  active  Democracy 
in  this  country,  when  the  Labour  Party — the  Labour 
Party — ^takes  office  under  a  Government  like  this,  and 
allows  its  leaders  to  be  snubbed,  insulted,  and  dis- 
missed by  Lloyd  George,  merely  for  telling  the  truth? 
And  what  a  "leader"  to  put  up  with  it!  Why,  Labour, 
if  it  wasn't  utterly  servile,  if  it  wasn't  made  up  of  men 
who  really  are  inferior,  and  are  content  to  remain  so, 
would  have  taken  over  the  government  of  the  country 
years  ago.  The  war  would  have  been  ended  with  hon- 
our. The  capitalists  will  never  end  it  of  their  own  free 
will.  They  daren't.  Millions  of  lives  would  have  been 
saved.  The  whole  world  would  have  moved  one  stage 
nearer  freedom.  As  it  is,  Labour  in  England  bleats  like 
a  feeble  sheep,  and  even  munition-makers  and  newspaper 
proprietors  are  allowed  to  libel  its  chosen  representa- 
tives. Any  kind  of  corrupt  swine,  with  a  medical  di- 
ploma, or  a  two-penny-ha'penny  Government  job,  can 
torture  and  bully  the  British  labourer  with  the  most  per- 
fect impunity.  .  .  .  He  loves  it. 
Margaret.    Oliver,  how  can  you! 


26  THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

Oliver.  Because  it's  true.  The  working  people  of 
England  deserve  everything  they  get.  They  deserve  to 
be  made  to  die  for  the  war  aims  of  the  munition-makers. 
They  deserve  to  be  made  to  lick  the  dust,  touch  their 
hats,  grovel  and  say  thank  you  when  their  liberties  are 
robbed  from  them  ...  in  the  sacred  name  of  Liberty! 
They  let  themselves  be  bamboozled  by  the  Government 
agents  who  masquerade  as  "patriotic"  leaders;  they 
allow  their  press  to  be  muzzled,  and  the  men  and  women 
among  them  who  have  an  ounce  of  backbone  to  be 
thrown  into  jail,  herded  with  the  lowest  criminals,  in- 
sulted by  police  court  magistrates.  Those  who  are  not 
in  khaki  will  lie  down  under  anything  so  long  as  they 
are  exempted  from  the  trenches  and  get  an  increase  of 
wages.  The  other  poor  devils  can't  help  themselves. 
It's  no  good,  Margaret.  As  a  nation  we  are  rotten  to 
the  very  heart.  The  only  decent  men  among  us  are 
the  poor  devils  in  France;  and  Democracy  at  home  has 
simply  left  them  to  their  fate,  thrown  them  to  the 
wolves.  ...  I  will  say  this,  though,  for  the  long-haired 
cranks  and  the  meek  dissenters — they  have  got  the 
courage  of  their  convictions!  They  go  to  jail  before 
they  give  in!  Those  few  thousand  unfortunate  honest 
men  may  save  us  yet.  I  don't  know.  Germany  and 
Russia  are  the  real  hope  of  the  world.  Soon  Germany 
will  revolt  and  gain  her  liberty.  She  will  take  English 
Liberty  from  us  and  she  will  give  us  Prussian  Militarism 
in  exchange!  Mark  my  words:  Germany,  in  defeat, 
will  win  the  greatest  Victory  of  the  War.  She  will  save 
her  own  soul. 

Margaret.  Oliver,  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  running 
down  your  own  side. 


THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  27 

Oliver.  I'm  not  running  'em  down.  I'm  just  ad- 
mitting the  truth  about  them,  in  private,  to  the  woman 
I  love.    Surely  I  may  do  that,  mayn't  I? 

Margaret  (softly).  Do  you  know  what  you  said  just 
then? 

Oliver  (goes  to  sofa  and  suddenly  kisses  Margaret  J. 
Oh,  well,  you  knew  that  months  ago,  you  darling !  Don 't 
pretend  you  didn't. 

Margaret.    Well,  it's  different  being  told. 

Oliver.  I  can't  see  any  real  difference.  A  fact's  a 
fact.  Printing  it  in  the  newspapers  doesn't  make  it  any 
more  a  fact — quite  the  contrary.  Everything  about  me 
has  been  telling  you  that  I  love  you,  for  months  and 
months. 

Margaret.  And  what  about  me?  What  have  I  told 
you? 

Oliver  (blushing).  Oh,  well,  I  don't  know.  You've 
put  up  with  it,  anyway.     Silence  gives  consent. 

Margaret.     Oh,  dear,  it's  all  my  fault! 

Oliver.    What  is? 

Margaret.  We  both  seem  to  have  forgotten  I'm  en- 
gaged ! 

Oliver.    Engaged !    Good  Lord ! 

Margaret.  Like  a  coward  I  've  never  written  to  break 
it  off.  He 's  coming  home  to-morrow  on  seven  days '  leave. 
I  think  he  wants  to  marry  me  before  he  goes  back  to 
the  trenches. 

Oliver  (whistles).  Don't  want  to  marry  Mm,  I  sup- 
pose? 

Margaret.  Oliver,  how  can  you?  It's  too  bad. 
After  all  .  .  . 

OuvER.    We've  omitted  to  say  to  one  another? 


28  THE   FIGHT   FOR   FREEDOM 

Margaret.  "Well,  if  you  like ;  but  oh,  I  do  feel  such  a 
wretch.  I  've  behaved  rottenly  to  Michael.  He  '11  despise 
me  and  hate  me,  and  so  will  everyone  who  hears  of  it. 

Oliver.  Oh,  nonsense,  baby!  It  wasn't  your  fault. 
It  wasn  't  any  of  our  faults.  "We  couldn  't  help  ourselves. 
It  just  happened.  After  all,  an  engagement  is  not  the 
same  as  marriage.  If  you  don 't  really  care  for  him  you 
ought  to  thank  your  stars  you  've  found  it  out  before  it 's 
too  late.  That  is  what  engagements  are  for — to  give 
people  a  chance. 

Margaret.  Yes,  I  suppose  that  is  so.  I  certainly 
hardly  knew  Michael  when  we  became  engaged.  It 
was  only  a  silly  school-girl  affair.  I  've  changed  utterly 
since  those  days.  Looking  back,  I  hardly  recognise  my- 
self. I  used  to  wear  the  badge  of  his  regiment  as  a 
brooch! — that  alone  speaks  volumes. 

Oliver.  Now,  Margaret,  listen  to  me,  darling.  Let's 
put  the  cards  on  the  table.  Break  your  engagement 
with  this  chap  Henderson  by  all  means.  It  seems  an 
absurd  sort  of  affair  anyhow.  But  beware  how  you 
accept  me  when  I  propose  to  you ! 

Margaret  (laugJiing).  Well,  you  haven't  shown  any 
sign  of  proposing  to  me  yet,  so  how  do  you  know  I  in- 
tend to  accept  you? 

Oliver.     "Well,  one  does  know  these  things. 

Margaret.     Conceit ! 

Oliver.     "Well,  will  you? 

Margaret  (archly).     "Will  I  what? 

Oliver.    Marry  me,  of  course? 

Margaret.     It  isn  't  fair  to  .  .  . 

Oliver.  I  know.  That  is  just  what  I  was  saying 
when  you  interrupted  me.     It  isn't  fair,  unless  you 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  29 

understand  what  you  are  letting  yourself  in  for.  As 
far  as  your  people  and  your  whole  family  and  social 
circle  is  concerned,  I'm  in  the  enemy's  camp ;  and  if  you 
marry  me  they'll  think  you  a  traitor.  Your  mother's 
friend,  the  dear  Dean,  will  go  to  the  police  about  it! 
I  'm  an  electrical  engineer,  as  you  know :  a  kind  of  extra 
special  artisan,  a  skilled  labourer,  in  short.  My  father 
was  a  cabinet-maker.  A  jolly  good  workman  he  was, 
too.  But  he  wasn't  a  gentleman,  thank  the  Lord!  He 
earned  his  living,  and  so  do  I  earn  mine. 

Margaret.  Oliver,  how  can  you!  You  are  mean, 
to  pretend  to  misunderstand  me  when  I  said  '*it  wasn't 
fair."  I  meant  it  wasn't  fair  to  put  a  leading  question 
.  .  .  and  make  me  say,  "yes,  I  will,"  right  out  like  that 
— ^just  as  if  we  were  in  church. 

Oliver.  My  dear,  I  don't  want  you  to  say  you  will, 
unless  you  know  what  you  are  doing.  Henderson  is 
rich,  and  I'm  not.  He's  a  soldier;  I'm  a  revolutionary 
working-class  agitator.  If  you  jilt  him  for  me,  your 
family  and  his  family  will  turn  and  rend  you.  They'll 
also  point  out — quite  rightly — that  it 's  bad  business. 

Margaret  (tearfully).  I  don't  believe  you  really 
want  me.  As  if  I  should  care  whether  we  are  rich  or 
poor.  In  any  case  I've  got  enough  for  both  of  us.  I 
don't  care  if  you  only  make  thirty  shillings  a  week. 

Oliver  (shocked).  Thirty  shillings  a  week !  I  'd  have 
you  to  understand,  young  woman,  that  when  I'm  not 
wasting  my  time  on  public  platforms  I  make  eight 
pounds  a  week,  and  earn  every  penny  of  it.  Thirty 
shillings,  indeed!  You  evidently  think  I'm  the  same 
kind  of  slave  as  the  fools  I'm  always  girding  against. 
Not  me,  thank  you.    What  I  really  want  to  find  out  is 


30  THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM 

whether  you  are  good  enough  for  the  life  I  offer  you. 
Can  you  face  the  world  of  To-morrow,  or  will  you  turn 
and  look  back — like  Lot's  wife,  and  with  the  same  un- 
fortunate results — at  Yesterday?  That's  what  I  want 
to  know. 

Margaret  (puzzled  and  resentful).  You  aren't  very 
encouraging,  I  must  say!  I  should  have  thought  I  was 
good  enough  for  anybody. 

Oliver.  I'm  not  going  to  kiss  you  again  ...  at 
least  not  yet.  If  we  admit  that  you  are  good  enough, 
are  you  strong  enough?  It  means  a  very  complete 
break  with  everything  that  you  are  used  to.  It  will 
demand  of  you  plenty  of  energy  and  activity,  plenty 
of  hard  work.  It  will  entail  a  fair  share  of  danger 
and  hardship.  It  means,  in  a  word,  crossing  the  gulf 
which  separates  people  of  your  particular  class  and  up- 
bringing from  the  rest  of  the  world,  which  includes, 
among  a  great  many  other  people,  people  of  my  class 
and  upbringing. 

Margaret.  I  believe  you  think  that  nobody  has  the 
least  intelligence,  or  is  capable  of  using  their  brains, 
except  yourself.  You  are  the  most  irritating  creature 
I  've  ever  met. 

Oliver;  Then  you  think  you  can  face  the  disadvan- 
tages and  all  the  disagreeables  of  life  that  really  is  life? 
(Sadly.)     I  wonder! 

Margaret.  Of  course  I  can.  I've  got,  perhaps,  more 
endurance  than  you  suppose.  I  think  it's  horrid  of  you 
to  go  on  like  this.  (Indignantly.)  If  you  despise  me, 
why  do  you  pretend  you  care  for  me? 

Oliver.  I  don't  despise  you,  idiot.  But  I  want  to 
make  sure  that  you  really  are  of  a  sufficiently  robust 


THE   FIGHT  FOR   FREEDOM  31 

constitution  to  be  able  to  face,  with  impunity,  the  keen 
air  of  a  life  that's  free,  and  open,  and  unsafe!  To  make 
sure  that  if  you  unpack  yourself  from  the  cotton-wool 
with  which  you  have  always  been  surrounded,  you  won't 
catch  cold! 

Margaret.  You  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  just  a  spoilt 
and  pampered  child.  I'm  a  human  being,  Oliver. 
I've  got  some  sort  of  a  mind,  and  will  .  .  .  and 
heart. 

Oliver  (sits  down  on  sofa  and  looks  at  Tier).  And  do 
you  know  why  I'm  talking  to  you  like  this?  It's  just 
because  I  love  you,  Margaret,  love  you  so  much  that  I 
want  to  find  out  if  we  are  likely  to  remain  good  com- 
rades all  our  lives. 

Margaret  (pouting).  You  say  you  love  me,  and  yet 
you  don't  trust  me!  You  think  I'm  just  a  weak  fool 
who  doesn  't  know  what  she 's  doing !  I  don 't  believe  you 
understand  me  one  little  bit. 

Oliver,  No,  darling,  I  don't  suppose  I  do.  That  is 
what  worries  me!  You  are  living  on  the  surface,  as 
you  have  always  lived.  You  don't  know  what  is  under- 
neath that  pretty  surface;  neither  do  I.  Nor  do  you 
know  what  sort  of  person  I  really  am.  You  don 't  know 
why  you  like  me.  We  are  comparative  strangers  who 
happen  to  feel  a  strong  attraction  to  one  another.  We 
don't  really  know  why. 

Margaret.  You  aren't  a  stranger  to  me  anyway, 
silly.  I  know  you  better  than  you  know  yourself,  and 
a  thousand  times  better  than  I  ever  knew  Michael 
Henderson.  He  is  a  ** comparative  stranger,"  if  you 
like. 

Oliver.    Good   Lord!     I   keep   forgetting  that   un- 


32  THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM 

fortunate  Henderson.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
about  him? 

Margaret.  I'm  going  to  write  to-night  and  ask  him 
to  release  me  .  .  .  and  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  see  him. 
You'll  think  me  a  fearful  little  coward,  I  expect,  but  I 
dread  the  interview. 

Oliver.  Wish  I  hadn't  to  go  to  Glasgow  to-morrow. 
I  shall  be  away  for  nearly  a  week,  too.  Otherwise  I 
could  have  gone  with  you,  or  waited  outside  to  pick  up 
the  pieces. 

Margaret.     Oliver. 

Oliver.    Yes,  darling. 

Margaret.     Do  you  know  that  I  love  you? 

Oliver  (tJiought fully).  Ah!  ...  do  you?  (They 
kiss.) 

Margaret.  I  really  think  I'm  the  happiest  woman 
who  ever  lived ! 

(Enter  Philip  Henderson  Jiurriedly, 
just  too  late  to  see  tJiem.) 

Philip.  Oh,  there  you  are,  Margaret!  Still  eating 
and  drinking.  Well,  I'm  blest  ...  in  war-time,  too! 
I've  just  been  sent  down  to  round  you  up.  The  party 
is  clamouring  for  you  to  sing  to  it.    Will  you  ? 

Margaret  (radiantly).  Sing!  Why,  of  course  I  will. 
I  feel  as  if  I  could  lift  the  roof  off!  Come  on,  both  of 
you,  and  hear  me.  (Site  runs  off  tJie  stage,  left,  followed 
by  Philip  and  Oliver.^ 

(Curtain.) 


ACT  II 

The  afternoon  of  the  following  day.  The  scene  is  a  com- 
fortahly  furnished  sitting-room  in  Philip  Hender- 
son's flat  in  Campden  Hill.  Door,  hack  centre. 
Fireplace,  right.  At  right  angles  to  the  fire  (facing 
the  audience)  is  a  hig  chesterfield  sofa.  Against 
the  wall,  to  the  left  of  the  door,  is  an  oak  sideboard. 
The  pictures  and  hooks  show  signs  of  the  artistic 
veneer  which  is  now  almost  universal  among  our 
bureaucracy.  When  the  curtain  rises  Philip  Hen- 
derson is  lolling  in  an  armchair  with  his  legs  crossed, 
looking  at  his  brother.  Captain  Michael  Hender- 
son, who  is  sitting  rather  stiffly  on  the  sofa.  Mi- 
chael Henderson,  who  is  in  uniform,  is  a  tall,  lean 
man  with  a  small,  dark  moustache,  a  complexion 
deeply  tanned  by  exposure,  and  the  eyes  of  a  mad- 
man. His  glance  makes  his  brother  secretly  uneasy, 
and  a^  he  sits  in  his  armchair  he  avoids  Michael's 
eyes  as  much  as  he  can. 

Michael.    What  time  did  she  say  she  would  be  here  ? 

Philip.     Four  o'clock. 

Michael  (looks  at  his  watch).  Another  quarter  of  an 
hour. 

Philip.  She's  sure  to  be  twenty  minutes  late — she 
always  is. 

Michael  (sharply).  You  seem  to  know!  Been  keep- 
ing the  home  fires  burning,  I  suppose  ? 

Philip.  Oh,  dry  up,  Michael!  Chuck  it!  You  are 
taking  this  business  all  wrong.    I  know  it's  hard  luck. 

33 


34  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

I  would  give  anything  for  it  not  to  have  happened. 
But  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  that  I  knew  nothing 
whatever  about  it  till  Margaret  told  me  herself — last 
night — at  Miss  Lambert's.  If  I  had  known  before,  I 
would  have  written  to  warn  you. 

Michael,  Very  kind  of  you,  I'm  sure.  However, 
I  've  not  done  with  Margaret  yet — not  by  any  means. 

Philip.  Come,  take  it  philosophically,  old  chap.  It's 
no  good  my  attempting  to  soften  the  blow:  I'm  afraid 
she 's  done  with  2/OM.  There's  another  fellow.  Some  sort 
of  a  Socialist,  I  believe,  but  I  can't  remember  his  name. 
If  I  were  you,  I'd  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job.  Margaret 
isn't  the  only  pretty  girl  in  the  world.    You '11  get  over  it. 

Michael.  Margaret  was  mine  before  I  went  to 
France.  She  shall  be  mine  now  I've  come  back  alive, 
for  seven  days! 

Philip  (sighs  helplessly ).  If  you  take  my  tip,  old 
chap,  you  won't  worry  your  head  about  her  more  than 
you  can  help.  It's  damned  hard  lines,  but  it  isn't  any- 
body's fault.  Margaret  was  awfully  cut  up  about  it. 
She  felt  she  ought  to  have  told  you  before.  .  .  .  All 
the  same,  you  can't  buUy  her  into  loving  you  if  she 
doesn  't. 

Michael  (bitterly).  I  suppose  some  elegant  official 
with  plenty  of  time  on  his  hands  has  been  diverting  him- 
self in  his  leisure  moments.  While  we  poor  devils  spend 
our  days  in  rat-infested  trenches,  tasting  the  delights  of 
several  hundred  different  kinds  of  hell,  your  comfort- 
able colleagues  run  about  seducing  our  women. 

Philip.  Good  heavens!  he  isn't  one  of  my  colleagues. 
He's  a  Socialist,  I  tell  you. 

Michael.    Whose  name  you  can't  remember! 

Phiup.    Now,  my  dear  boy,  don't,  for  God's  sake, 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  35 

start  that  kind  of  talk.  You'll  only  spoil  your  leave, 
and  have  a  rotten  time  when  you  might  be  enjoying 
yourself.  Margaret  has  changed  enormously  during  the 
last  year  and  a  half,  and  it  isn't  her  fault  or  ours.  She 
has  grown  up.  She  has  got  all  kinds  of  mad  ideas  into 
her  head ;  thinks  the  war  ought  to  stop,  and  that  kind 
of  thing.  She  practically  lives  at  Eleanor  Lambert's 
house  now. 

Michael  (bitterly).  Catch  a  Government  official 
thinking  the  war  ought  to  end!  Unless  a  few  of  your 
fat  friends  get  hanged  on  lamp-posts  the  war  will  never 
stop,  without  a  revolution  here  or  in  Germany.  Every 
soldier  knows  that.  We  sha'n't  quarrel  on  that  point 
anyway.    Go  on,  please. 

Philip.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  that  Margaret  is  as 
obstinate  as  they  make  'em.  You'll  only  waste  your 
precious  seven  days  if  you  don 't  accept  what  I  'm  afraid 
is  the  inevitable. 

Michael.  I  shall  not  surrender  Margaret  without 
a  fight ;  even  if  I  have  to  put  a  bullet  through  the  neck 
of  this  damned  thief. 

Philip.  Don't  look  so  ferocious,  for  Heaven's  sake! 
He  isn't  a  damned  thief.  Quite  a  harmless  youth,  I 
assure  you.  The  incarnation  of  the  Nonconformist 
conscience!  After  all,  Margaret  isn't  a  piece  of  real 
estate.  She's  a  human  being  with  the  right  to  dispose 
of  herself  as  she  pleases.  If  she  has  the  bad  taste  to 
prefer  this  young  man  to  you,  there's  nothing  to  be 
done  except  grin  and  bear  it  with  your  usual  dignity. 
Do  drop  this  Adelphi  melodrama  line  ...  it's  out  of 
date,  old  chap. 

Michael.  Do  you  think  so?  If  what  you  call 
violence  is  out  of  date,  what  do  you  suppose  twenty 


36  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

million  men  are  occupied  in  at  the  present  moment  on 
the  continent  of  Europe?  You  stay  here  safely  on  this 
island,  with  the  British  Army  and  Navy  to  protect 
you,  and  you  imagine  the  world  is  going  on  the  same  as 
before.  It  isn't.  (Gets  up  and  begins  walking  about 
the  room.)  If  you  set  men  to  kill  each  other  for  your 
comfort,  you  must  expect  to  find  'em  altered  when  they 
return.  If  you  think  I  shall  allow  Margaret  to  be  stolen 
from  me  behind  my  back,  without  lifting  a  finger,  you 
must  be  raving. 

Philip.  That's  all  very  well,  Michael.  She  is  coming 
here  to  see  you.  By  all  means  try  to  win  her  back, 
make  love  to  her  again  and  that  kind  of  thing.  But 
remember  she  has  the  right  to  give  her  love  freely  to 
whoever  she  pleases.  She  is  of  age;  she  is  her  own 
mistress.  Prussian  methods  of  courtship,  as  you  ought 
to  know  yourself,  don't  work. 

Michael.    Don't  they?    How  do  you  know? 

Philip.  Well,  anyway,  it  is  not  a  criminal  offence  to 
break  off  an  engagement.  Some  people  would  regard 
it  as  criminal  for  a  woman  to  let  things  go  on,  if  her 
feelings  have  altered.  Margaret  is  a  splendidly  honest 
and  straightforward  girl,  I  will  say  that  for  her.  She 
feels  the  whole  situation  most  keenly.  The  fact  that 
she  agreed  to  this  meeting  proves  it.  It  must  have 
required  a  good  deal  of  pluck  on  her  part. 

Michael.  You  are  a  funny  crowd,  you  stay-at-homes. 
You  are  like  children  playing  blissfully  in  fairyland. 
You  don't  know  what  life  means,  Philip,  till  you  have 
faced  death  day  after  day,  week  after  week,  month  after 
month.  All  the  old  delusions  get  shattered  to  pieces. 
The  small  terrors  of  ordinary  life  cease  to  exist.     Do 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  87 

you  really  expect  me  to  stand  by  and  let  some  Socialist 
fellow  swindle  me  out  of  all  my  hopes  of  happiness?  I 
claim  what  would  have  been  mine  if  I  had  not  been  sent 
to  France, 

Philip.  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like  the  heavy 
villain,  Michael.  These  things  will  occur  in  war  time  as 
well  as  in  peace.  You  can't  alter  human  nature.  Look 
at  the  things  which  happened  during  the  South  African 
war!  After  all,  it  isn't  as  if  you  had  married  Margaret 
and  then  come  home  to  find  an  unexpected  addition 
to  the  family.  She  isn't  yours.  She  never  has  been 
yours.  .  .  . 

Michael.    Yes,  she  has.  .  .  . 

Philip.  Rot!  There's  all  the  difference  in  the  world 
between  an  engagement  and  a  marriage.  Why,  good 
Lord,  I  've  been  engaged  myself  I  don 't  know  how  many 
times.  I've  certainly  been  jilted  twice.  The  other  times 
it  .  .  .  just  lapsed.  But  I  certainly  didn't  rush  round 
breathing  fire  and  slaughter  on  my  hated  rivals. 

Michael  (grimly).  No.  You  wouldn't  do  that, 
Philip. 

Philip.  Too  much  common  sense,  old  boy.  Women 
aren't  worth  it.  They  are  like  omnibuses — there's 
always  another  one  coming.  No,  you  come  out  on  the 
spree  with  me  to-night,  Michael,  and  enjoy  yourself  like 
a  sensible  chap.  After  all,  you  can  have  a  lot  of  fun  in 
seven  days.  .  .  . 

Michael  (contemptuously ).  What  an  immoral  fellow 
you  are!  Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  did  this  morning? 
I  discovered  how  to  get  an  emergency  marriage  licence. 
I  intend  to  marry  Margaret  Lambert  before  I  go  back 
to  France.    I  am  afraid  I  can 't  accept  your  kind  invita- 


38  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

tion  to  wallow  in  the  stews.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  my 
future  wife. 

Philip  (impatiently).  It's  all  very  well  to  get  on 
your  high  horse,  but  the  girl  has  refused  to  marry  you. 
She  has  transferred  her  affections,  very  foolishly,  I  ad- 
mit, to  someone  else.  You  can't  marry  her  against  her 
will. 

Michael.  That  shows  how  little  you  understand 
women,  Philip.  Have  you  never  heard  of  marriage  by 
capture?  Our  ancestors  hadn't  these  modern  notions 
.  .  .  and,  fundamentally,  human  nature  hasn't  changed 
in  the  slightest  degree  with  the  passage  of  the  ages. 
Women,  all  women,  love  a  master.  I  could  tell  you 
curious  stories  to  illustrate  this  point,  but  I  refrain  out 
•of  respect  for  your  feelings.  We  soldiers  get  to  know 
human  nature  in  the  raw,  as  it  really  is.  You  only  see 
it  covered  up  in  the  cheap  frills  of  your  rotten  civilisa- 
tion. I  have  no  fears  about  Margaret  once  she  is  mar- 
ried to  me.  It  is  the  first  step  which  counts — with  a 
woman  as  with  everything  else.  Margaret  is  owed  to  me 
by  England:  I  have  a  right  to  her;  I  don't  intend  to 
give  her  up.  If  you've  any  decent  feeling  left  in  you, 
Philip,  you'll  stand  by  me. 

Philip.  Bless  my  soul,  Margaret  has  changed  a  lot; 
but  you've  changed  more.  I'm  hanged  if  I  recognise 
you  at  all,  old  chap.  I'll  stand  by  you,  of  course,  but  I 
must  stand  by  you  both.  I  '11  keep  the  ring  and  see  fair 
play.  I  wish  you  luck,  Michael.  None  but  the  brave, 
etc.    All  the  same,  don't  forget  the  game  has  rules. 

Michael  (laughing).  Oh,  I  won't  forget.  But  I 
warn  you  I  may  break  them  all.  All's  fair  in  love  and 
war,  you  know. 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  39 

Philip  (reassured  by  Michael's  joking  tone).  By 
Jove,  I  believe  you've  been  pulling  my  leg  all  this  time. 
I  was  getting  quite  nervous.  If  I  didn't  know  that, 
in  spite  of  your  ferocious  talk,  you  are  the  same  old 
chivalrous  fellow  you  always  used  to  be,  I'm  hanged  if 
I'd  allow  Margaret  to  visit  you  alone  in  my  flat!  I'd 
stay  and  play  gooseberry — by  Gad,  I  would!  As  it  is, 
I'd  better  give  you  my  blessing  and  retire,  or  I  shall 
meet  her  on  the  stairs.  (A  ring  is  heard.)  Good  Lord! 
there  she  is. 

Michael  (his  eyes  glittering  curiously).  Well,  why 
don't  you  let  her  in? 

(Thilip  goes  to  the  front  door  of  the  flat  and  throws 

it  open.) 

Philip.  Well,  Mar  .  .  .  Good  heavens!  the  Dean 
...  I  mean,  how  do  you  do,  sir? 

The  Dean  (striding  into  the  room,  rather  annoyed 
with  his  reception).  How  are  you,  Michael?  (Shakes 
hands.)  You  both  seem  very  surprised  to  see  me,  I 
must  say. 

Michael.    Not  at  all.  Dean — delighted. 

The  Dean.  As  an  old  friend  of  your  parents,  Mi- 
chael, and  of  Margaret's  parents,  I  felt  I  must  be  among 
the  first  to  welcome  you  home.  You  are  looking  splendid, 
my  boy — splendid ! 

Michael.     That's  very  nice  of  you,  sir. 

The  Dean  (stretching  himself  in  the  most  comfort- 
able armchair).  Well,  it  looks  as  if  we  had  them  on  the 
run  at  last,  eh  ?  Stirring  times !  Magnificent !  What  an 
ennobling  and  purifying  effect  this  war  is  having  on  the 


40  THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM 

nation!  I  envy  you  your  privilege,  Michael.  I  wish  I 
were  your  age,  and  in  your  shoes! 

Michael  (sourly).  That's  a  safe  wish,  sir.  You  will 
never  be  my  age,  and  so  you  will  never  have  to  be  in 
my  shoes.  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  envy  me  so  much  if 
you  were. 

The  Dean  (startled).  Ah!  I  know  exactly  how  you 
feel,  my  boy.  It  is  all  too  near,  too  terrible.  .  .  .  But 
wait  till  it  is  all  over,  and  you  are  marching  to  Berlin 
at  the  head  of  your  men.  Then  you  will  be  proud  and 
happy  to  think  of  the  part  you  took  in  the  great  fight 
for  freedom. 

Michael.  Perhaps.  I  shall  postpone  my  rejoicings 
for  the  present,  anyway.  Sometimes  I  think  I  would 
sooner  march  on  to  London,  at  the  head  of  my  men,  than 
on  to  Berlin. 

The  Dean  (beaming  with  pleasure).  Oh  yes!  what 
a  day  that  will  be  for  us  all!  What  a  welcome  our 
brave  fellows  will  receive! 

Michael.    Der  tag,  in  fact! 

The  Dean  (impressively).  A  heavy  responsibility 
has  been  laid  on  the  Church  during  these  historic  times. 
The  Church  has  had  to  prepare  the  nation  spiritually 
for  the  ordeal  of  battle.  .  .  .  And  it  will  have  to  take  its 
part — a  leading  part — in  reconstruction. 

Michael.  (Conventional  good  manners  cause  him  to 
make  an  effort  to  conceal  his  boredom.  Every  now  and 
then  he  looks  at  Philip,  who  is  hovering  behind  The 
Dean's  chair,  and  malces  a  grimace  of  misery).  It  will' 
have  its  work  cut  out ! 

Tece  Dean.  Undoubtedly,  Michael  .  .  .  undoubtedly. 
But  the  Church  has  been  far  from  idle  during  the  war, 


THE   FIGHT   FOR   FREEDOM  41 

you  know.  It  has  organised  itself  on  a  sound,  progres- 
sive basis.  We  have  kept  ourselves  up  to  date — ^we  have 
marched  with  the  times.  Why,  we  have  had  to  make 
arrangements  for  the  spiritual  comfort  of  millions  of 
our  brave  lads.  No  easy  task  that!  We  have  had  to 
adapt  ourselves. 

MiCHAELi  (wearily,  iut  with  venom).  I  believe 
you,  sir. 

The  Dean  (warming  to  this  theme).  Personally,  I 
was  in  favour  of  releasing  our  younger  men  for  service 
in  the  trenches.  I  wrote  to  the  Times  about  it.  But  I 
had  to  bow  to  the  Archbishop  on  that  point.  .  ,  .  Yes,  I 
had  to  bow  to  the  Archbishop.  .  .  . 

Michael.  So  the  Church  wasn't  combed  out  after 
all!    Whatever  was  the  Daily  Mail  thinking  of? 

The  Dean.  Oh,  the  Daily  Mail — inspired,  possibly, 
by  my  few  words  in  the  Times — did  take  the  matter 
up  to  some  extent.  A  most  patriotic  paper — in  spite  of 
its  occasional  defects  of  style.  But  the  Archbishop's 
veto  was  final.  Perhaps  he  was  right.  After  all,  the 
Church  has  its  special  work  to  perform — encouragement, 
succour,  spiritual  consolation.  All  the  same,  it  was  hard 
on  the  younger  clergy — very  hard. 

Philip  (bravely  attempting  a  diversion).  I  say,  Dean, 
I  wonder  if  you  and  Mrs.  Slaughter  could  lunch  with 
me  here  on  Thursday  ? — the  day  after  to-morrow.  Then 
you  and  Michael  could  have  a  good  long  talk  about 
everything.  .  .  .  Just  now,  Michael  .  .  . 

The  Dean.  That's  very  good  of  you,  Philip;  we 
shall  be  delighted.  And  I  hope  dear  Margaret  will  be 
one  of  the  party — and  this  really  brings  me  to  the  object 
of  my  call,  Michael.    It  is  really  Margaret  about  whom 


42  THE   FIGHT   FOR   FREEDOM 

I  want  to  talk  to  you.  You  know  I  feel  to  some  extent  in 
loco  parentis  in  regard  to  that  dear  child.  I  am  in  a  very 
special  sense  her  spiritual  father.  I  baptised  her  and 
I  myself  prepared  her  for  her  confirmation,  so  that  we 
are  very  near  to  one  another — very  near.  I  confess  I 
am  alarmed  about  her,  Michael. 

Michael  (rising,  in  tlie  Jiope  of  dislodging  The  Dean^. 
"We  must  have  a  good  long  chat  on  Thursday,  sir.  I 
shall  look  forward  to  it.  I  hope  you  won't  think  me 
inhospitable,  but  I  have  rather  an  important  appoint- 
ment in  a  few  minutes. 

The  Dean.  My  dear  boy,  I  am  so  sorry.  I  am  afraid 
I  must  have  called  at  a  very  inopportune  moment.  Can 
we  go  along  together  ?    My  car  is  at  the  door  now. 

Michael.  Oh,  thanks  very  much,  sir.  But  I  have 
one  or  two  things  to  see  to  here,  before  I  start. 

The  Dean.  "WeU,  good-bye  till  Thursday.  (Shakes 
hands  with  Michael.  J  I  am  really  very  much  alarmed 
about  Margaret.  I  am  afraid  she  has  got  into  the  hands 
of  some  highly  undesirable  people — Socialists,  and  so  on. 
But  you  will  soon  put  all  that  nonsense  out  of  her  head, 
I'm  sure.  It's  a  blessing  you've  come  home.  Take  my 
advice,  Michael,  leave  nothing  to  chance  this  time. 
Settle  it  up  at  once. 

Michael  (grimly).  That's  exactly  what  I  mean  to 
do,  sir.  "We  must  talk  things  over  on  Thursday.  Good- 
bye for  the  present.    I  sha'n't  forget  your  advice. 

Philip  (hustling  Dean  Slaughter  out  of  the  flat).  I 
wonder  if  you  could  drop  me  in  Pall  Mall  ? 

The  Dean.  With  pleasure,  Philip,  particularly  as 
my  own  destination  happens  to  be  the  Athenaeum. 

(Exit  Philip  and  The  DeanJ 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  43 

Michael  (Jieaves  a  sigh  of  relief  and  stares  for  some 
moments  at  the  closed  door).     Phew! 

(He  walks  across  to  the  sofa  and  sits  down  m£ditatively. 
Then  he  pulls  a  small  box  like  a  snuff-box  from  his 
troupers  pocket,  opens  it,  and  puts  it  hack.  Then 
he  gets  up,  walks  to  the  sideboard  and  produces  a 
champagne  bottle  and  two  glasses  which  he  leaves  in 
readiness.  He  returns  to  the  sofa  and  waits  in 
silence,  glancing  at  the  clock.  At  five  minutes  past 
four  a  knock  is  heard  at  the  outer  door.  He  goes 
out  of  the  room,  leaving  the  room  door  open,  and 
admits  Margaret.  Their  greeting  is  heard  in  the 
passage.) 

Michael.    Margaret!    At  last! 

Margaret.  Michael!  (She  enters  the  room,  followed 
by  Michael.  Turning  towards  him.)  Am  I  fearfully 
late? 

Michael.  Better  late  than  never.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  you  just  gave  me  time  to  get  rid  of  the  Dean. 

Margaret.  Not  Sainted  Sam?  What  an  escape! 
Just  fancy  if  I  had  run  into  him !    (Sits  down  on  sofa.) 

Michael.  You  missed  him  by  about  two  minutes. 
(Sarcastically.)  He  talked  about  the  ennobling  and  puri- 
fying influence  which  the  war  has  had  on  the  British 
nation  and  the  marvellous  adaptability  shown  by  the 
Church  of  England.  Philip  and  I  were  fairly  caught 
without  our  masks — gassed.  What  he  really  came  for, 
though,  was  to  talk  about  you. 

Margaret.  I  like  his  cheek.  I  wish  he  would  mind 
his  own  business. 


44  THE   FIGHT   FOR   FREEDOM 

Michael.  Oh,  parsons  are  like  that  (shrugs  his 
shoulders.  Then  offers  Margaret  a  cigarette  and  takes 
one  himself.)  (Sharply.)  So  I  Ve  stayed  away  too  long, 
eh,  my  dear? 

Margaret  (her  nervousness  apparent).  Michael,  I 
wish  ^vith  all  my  heart  I  hadn't  to  welcome  you  like  this. 

Michael.    I  can't  pretend  it  isn't  a  blow. 

Margaret.  I  would  have  told  you  before,  but  things 
have  happened  so  very  gradually.  All  the  time  you 
have  been  away  I  have  been,  I  suppose,  growing  up, 
changing;  and  I've  grown  up  altogether  different  from 
the  child  you  knew.  It  wasn't  to  be  helped,  Michael 
.  .  .  one's  brain  seems  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  these 
things.    It's  just  Fate. 

Michael  (bitterly).  No,  we  oan't  help  ourselves. 
Our  actions  seem  to  be  planned  for  us  ahead.  We  carry 
out  our  orders  and  we  imagine  we  give  the  orders  our- 
selves.   We  don 't.    God  or  the  Devil  is  our  Master ! 

Margaret  (looks  at  Michael  with  startled  eyes, 
apprehensive.  The  words  ''shell-shock"  form  themselves 
on  her  lips).  Michael,  forgive  me.  Let's  be  friends,  at 
least.  But  you  are  queer.  There's  such  a  strange  look 
in  your  eyes. 

Michael.  My  eyes  have  looked  on  strange  things 
since  they  last  looked  on  you,  Margaret.  Have  you 
ever  thought  about  what  my  life  has  been  all  this  long 
time?  Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  cold,  the  wet,  the 
monotony,  the  ear-splitting  noise,  the  unendurable,  ines- 
capable smell  of  death,  the  smell  of  the  dead  mouldering 
bodies  of  one's  own  friends? 

Margaret.  I'm  always  thinking  of  it — always. 
That's  what  makes  things  so  terribly  difficult! 


THE   FIGHT   FOR   FREEDOM  45 

Michael.  Perhaps  I've  changed  as  much  as  you 
have,  Margaret.  Take  back  your  decision  for  a  day  or 
two!  You  owe  me  that  much — surely.  It  isn't  a  great 
deal  to  ask — two  or  three  days'  grace.  At  the  end  of 
that  time,  if  you  are  still  certain  that  you  don 't  care  for 
me  any  more,  you  can  tell  me  so  and  I  sha'n't  grumble. 
(Goes  over  to  the  sofa  and  takes  Margaret's  Tiand.  SJie 
represses  a  shvdder.) 

Margaret.  Oh,  it  isn't  any  use,  Michael,  It  would 
only  be  cruel  to  you  and  unfair  to  me.  It  isn't  only 
that  I've  changed  .  .  .  but — oh,  why  do  you  make  me 
say  it  ? — I  have  begun  to  care  for  another  man, 

Michael  (grinUy).  You've  changed  your  mind  once. 
How  do  you  know  you  may  not  change  it  again  ? 

Margaret.  Michael,  don't  torture  me,  I  beg  of  you. 
I  am  bitterly  sorry  for  what  has  happened,  I  would 
give  anything  for  things  to  have  fallen  out  differently. 
After  all  you  have  been  through  to  have  to  treat  you 
like  this  is  an  agony  to  me.  But  I  can't  help  it.  One 
can't  love  to  order.    No  one  can  control  their  affections. 

Michael  (looking  at  Tier  curiously).  Aha!  That's 
interesting.  I  agree  with  you  absolutely.  No  one  can 
control  his  affections ! 

Margaret  (Tier  nervousness  increasing).  I  am  sure 
of  it.  If  I  could  have  controlled  mine,  do  you  think  I 
would  have  treated  you  like  this?  Indeed  I  wouldn't. 
But,  Michael,  love  is  something  that  can  only  exist  in 
absolute  freedom.  You  may  shame  or  coerce  people  into 
marrying,  but  never  into  loving.  And  marriage  without 
love  is  a  defilement,  an  unclean  thing.  So  that  is  why 
it  seems  to  me  that,  at  whatever  cost,  it  is  better  to  be 
honest.    My  dear,  I  was  a  child  when  you  and  I  met; 


46  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

but  I  'm  not  a  child  any  longer.  I  must  be  free.  If  one 
is  honest  about  love  one  has  to  be  ...  a  little  ruthless. 

Michael  (smiling).  You  admit  that,  then  .  .  .  that 
an  honest  love  is  ruthless? 

Margaret  (on  tJie  verge  of  tears).  Don't  cross-exam- 
ine me,  Michael,  I  beg  of  you.  You  don't  know  what  it 
has  meant  to  me  to  come  here  and  tell  you  this,  alone. 
It  wasn  't  easy,  I  assure  you.  My  knees  knocked  together 
with  nervousness  so  that  I  could  hardly  walk. 

CMiCHAEL  is  caugJit  in  a  sudden  gust  of  sexual  ferocity. 
Her  nearness  Jias  become  a  torment  to  Mm.  His 
eyes  devour  Tier  body  disrobingly  and  fasten  on  tJie 
contour  of  Tier  breast.  He  has  great  difficulty  in 
controlling  Jiimself.  His  voice  shakes  when  he 
speaks.) 

Michael.  So  your  little  white  knees  shook,  did 
they  ...  as  you  came  to  tell  the  man  who  loves  you 
that  you  have  thrown  him  over?  And  your  little  bosom, 
that  thinks  it  knows  what  love  is,  rose  and  fell  with 
nervousness,  you  poor  little  bird!  What  do  you  know 
about  passion,  you  sleeping  beauty !  I  could  teach  you 
.  .  .  I  could  wake  you  up!  And  you  tell  me  love  is 
ruthless !    You  spoke  the  truth  there,  at  any  rate. 

('Margaret  jumps  to  her  feet  in  great  alarm.  Michael 
rises,  too,  and  interposes  between  her  and  the  door.) 

Margaret.  Michael,  please  don't  go  on  like  this.  T 
am  very  sorry  for  what  has  happened,  but  it  is  absolutely 
irrevocable.  (Softening.)  I  must  go  home  now.  Do  let 
us  part  friends.  (She  Jiolds  out  her  hand.  He  takes  it, 
pulls  her  towards  him,  then  lets  it  drop.) 


THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  47 

Michael.  There,  I'm  sorry  if  I  frightened  you,  my 
dear.  Of  course  I  hope  we  shall  always  be  friends — 
very  great  friends.  (He  looks  round,  with  assumed  care- 
lessness to  the  sideboard  at  the  hack  of  the  room.)  Hullo, 
I'm  hanged  if  Philip  hasn't  put  out  a  bottle  of  Moet 
in  a  conspicuous  place.  Isn't  that  just  like  him?  We 
mustn't  slight  his  hospitable  instincts  (goes  to  side- 
board). We  shall  have  to  drink  a  glass  together  before 
you  go  for  the  sake  of  old  times,  or  else  he  will  be  of- 
fended. You  won't  refuse  me  that,  Margaret?  (He 
looks  at  her  appealingly.  She  stands  undecided  for  a 
moment,  then  smiles.) 

Margaret.    Dear  old  Philip !  he  thinks  of  everything ! 

^Margaret  returns  to  the  sofa.  Michael  opens  the 
champagne  bottle,  with  his  back  to  the  audience. 
After  a  slight  pause,  when  the  two  glasses  are  filled, 
"he  turns  round  and  hands  one  of  the  glasses  to 
Margaret.    He  raises  his  own  glass.) 

Michael.  Here's  to  the  future,  Margaret — ^yours  and 
mine. 

Margaret  (lifting  her  glass  and  looking  at  him). 
Good  luck  to  you,  Michael!  (She  drinks,  then  looks 
curiously  at  the  champagne  as  if  it  had  a  queer  taste.) 

Michael  (unth  gusto).  By  Jove,  fhis  is  good  stuff! 
What  memories  it  brings  back,  doesn't  it?  Do  you 
remember  that  dance  at  Oban  when  the  Admiral  got 
so  fearfully  foxed?  That  must  have  been  almost  our 
first  meeting.  How  well  I  remember  it  .  .  .  and  it 
seems  a  hundred  years  ago.  (He  sits  down  by  Mar- 
garet's side.)  All  the  time  I  have  been  in  France, 
Margaret,  I  have  thought  of  this  moment — ^looked  for- 


48  THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

ward  to  it.  Luckily,  I  didn't  realise  what  was  'n  store 
for  me.  (Sighs.)  Margaret,  I  give  you  another  toast, 
a  last  one  to  finish  our  glasses!  Here's  to  love,  the  real 
love,  the  love  that  is  ruthless ! 

(They  drink.  When  her  glass  is  emptied  Margaret 
suddenly  gasps.) 

Margaret.    Oh,  oh,  my  head!  .  .  .  Michael! 

(The  glass  falls  from  her  hand.  Her  head  sinks  down 
against  the  sofa.  She  sighs  deeply  and  murmurs 
unintelligible  words.  Michael  rises  swiftly,  goes 
to  the  door,  locks  it,  then  comes  hack,  puts  his  arm 
round  Margaret's  recumbent  body  and  kisses  her.) 

Michael.    Mine  ...  at  last! 

(Curtain.) 


ACT  III 

The  scene  is  the  drawing-room  of  Mrs.  Lambert's  house 
in  Kensington  Square.  The  furniture  is  either  very 
middle-aged  or  ultra-modern,  and  the  mixture  of 
styles  gives  the  room  an  incongruous  appearance. 
Incidentally  it  symbolises  the  difference  between 
Margaret  and  her  mother. 

When  the  curtain  rises  Mrs.  Lambert  is  sitting  with 
her  spectacles  on  her  nose,  reading  a  letter.  (Her 
spectacles  clash  with  the  youthfulness  of  her  blonde 
wig.)  She  has  been  weeping,  as  her  eyelids  in- 
dicate, and  when  she  comes  to  the  end  of  the  letter 
she  sighs  deeply  and  begins  it  all  over  again.  At 
last  she  puts  it  down,  takes  off  her  spectacles  and 
wipes  them  with  her  pocket  handkerchief. 

The  door  is  opened  by  the  Parlour-maid. 

Maid.     The  Dean  of  Devizes  and  Mrs.  Slaughter. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Oh,  Janey,  I  am  so  glad  you've  come ! 
(kisses  Mrs.  Slaughter.^  It  is  good  of  you,  Samuel. 
(shakes  hands  with  The  Dean.^ 

The  Dean.  My  dear  Mary,  I  was  deeply  shocked 
when  I  got  your  letter.  Deeply  shocked!  Why,  I 
called  on  Michael  on  the  very  afternoon  on  which  this 
sad  business  took  place.  ...  I  thought  his  manner  was 
strange.  Indeed,  he  practically  asked  me  to  go  because 
he  *'had  an  appointment."  If  I  had  only  known  the 
nature  of  that  appointment!  If — I — had — only — 
known! 

Mrs.  Lambert.    I  am  in  despair  about  poor  Margarei. 

49 


50  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

The  child  is  simply  distracted.  I  was  afraid  last  night 
that  she  would  lose  her  reason. 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (vjitJi  a  gliastly  cheerfulness).  Oh, 
come,  come,  Mary.  She  will  get  over  it.  She  must  be 
brave  about  it.  We  must  all  be  brave.  We  must  put 
our  heads  together.  Samuel  will  advise  us.  (In  an 
ingratiating  whisper.)  Tell  us  exactly  what  happened, 
Mary,  from  the  very  beginning! 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Oh,  I  can't  talk  of  it  ...  it's  so 
altogether  dreadful  .  .  .  horrible.  The  only  gleam  of 
consolation  is  that  Michael  seems  to  be  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  himself.  Here  is  his  letter.  It  came  an  hour 
ago,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it. 
(hands  letter  to  Dean  Slaughter.^ 

The  Dean  (detaching  his  eyeglasses  from  their  perch 
on  his  corded  sUk  waistcoat,  begins  to  read  the  letter. 
Mrs.  Slaughter,  standing  on  her  toes,  reads  it  over  his 
shoulder).  H'm!  h'm!  h'm!  I  am  bound  to  admit  that 
it  seems  a  very  straightforward  and  manly  letter. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  He  certainly  seems  anxious  to  do  all 
in  his  power  to  make  amends  .  .  .  but  I  don't  know 
how  Margaret  will  take  it;  she  does  nothing  but  weep. 
Oh,  dear,  I  wish  it  hadn't  happened  ...  I  wish  it 
hadn't  happened,  (putting  her  head  in  her  hands.)  I 
feel  as  if  my  brain  would  burst,  wondering  what  to  do 
about  it. 

The  Dean.  There,  there,  calm  yourself,  Mary !  There 
are  some  sentences  in  this  letter  which  leave  us  in  no 
doubt  whatever  as  to  the  right  course  for  Margaret  to 
pursue.  The  Church  in  her  wisdom  has  laid  down  a 
definite  rule  in  these  cases.  Where  the  man  is  willing, 
the  couple  ought  to  marry,  and  Michael  wants  nothing 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  51 

better.  Listen  to  what  he  says:  *'The  very  first  thing 
I  did  when  I  arrived  in  London  was  to  get  a  special 
marriage  licence  in  the  hope  that  Margaret  might  be 
persuaded  to  marry  me  before  my  leave  was  up.  The 
dearest  wish  of  my  heart  is  that  she  will  still  consent,  in 
spite  of  what  has  happened,  and  that  she  will  eventually 
forgive  me  for  a  moment  of  madness,  which  I  look  back 
on  with  horror  and  r^ret."  .  .  .  Well,  well.  Sad  as 
this  terrible  business  is,  we  mustn't  judge  the  boy  too 
harshly.  We  must  remember  all  that  he  has  endured 
for  our  sakes,  Mary. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  But  it  isn't  we  who  have  to  judge 
him,  Samuel.  It  is  Margaret.  It's  really  no  business 
of  ours.    It  is  she  who  has  to  marry  him,  not  us. 

The  Dean.  No,  Mary,  judgment  is  not  in  our  hands. 
.  .  .  And  neither  is  it  in  Margaret's  hands.  But  we 
are  told  that  the  Lord  in  His  mercy  will  not  despise  a 
broken  and  contrite  heart.  As  a  clergyman  I  am  bound 
to  say  this  letter  shows  a  very  proper  spirit.  As  a  man 
of  the  world,  it  strikes  me  as  being  straightforward, 
generous,  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  gentlemanlike. 

Mrs.  Lambert  (sighing).  That's  all  very  well,  Sam- 
nel,  but  you  are  leaving  Margaret  out  of  all  your  calcu- 
lations. She  will  never  consent  to  be  made  an  honest 
woman  of — ^just  like  a  housemaid  who  has  got  into 
trouble. 

The  Dean.  I  shall  talk  to  her,  Mary.  If  necessary, 
I  shall  say  a  few  words  to  her  in  private.  I  feel  sure 
that  she  will  do  her  duty  as  a  Christian  English  gentle- 
woman. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  If  Margaret  has  any  decent  pa- 
triotic feeling,  Mary,  she  mtist  take  the  view  of  this 


62  THE   FIGHT  FOR   FREEDOM 

business  that  we  do.  After  all,  Michael  has  a  splendid 
record  as  a  soldier.  He  has  the  Military  Cross  and  the 
Legion  of  Honour!  He's  a  good  match  in  every  way, 
and,  besides,  he  must  have  fully  £4000  a  year  of  his 
own.  It  would  be  lunacy  to  let  her  ruin  all  her  prospects 
in  life.  They  ought  to  be  married  at  once — ^to-morrow. 
That  is  the  only  possible  way  to  make  things  right. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Margaret  doesn't  think  so.  She 
calls  him  a  criminal.  I  suppose  people  do  get  put  into 
prison  for  that  sort  of  thing — -poor  people,  of  course. 
Didn't  your  under-gardener,  Samuel,  get  into  trouble 
for  something  of  the  kind  ?  I  don 't  know  how  Margaret 
heard  of  that,  but  she  keeps  quoting  it. 

The  Dean  (indignant).  Really,  Mary,  I  must  protest 
against  this  imputation.  The  cases  bear  no  resemblance 
whatever.  The  man  Jenkins,  to  whom  you  refer,  was 
a  man  of  thoroughly  vicious  and  depraved  instincts. 
Even  before  he  joined  the  army  I  had  twice  given  him 
notice  for  intemperance. 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (hrightly).  Come,  Mary,  do  let  us 
stick  to  the  point  and  try  to  look  at  the  whole  matter 
calmly  and  sensibly.  It  is  no  use  wringing  one's  hands 
over  a  disaster.  The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  apply  First 
Aid  at  once.    The  war  has  taught  us  that,  at  any  rate. 

The  Dean.  In  this  case  the  policy  of  reason  and 
good  sense  happens  also  to  be  in  complete  accordance 
with  the  teaching  of  the  Church,  Mary.  Our  path  is 
perfectly  clear  before  us. 

Mrs.  Lambert  (unconvinced).  Vm  afraid  Margaret 
is  not  in  a  very  sensible  mood.  .  .  . 

The  Dean.  Or  in  a  very  religious  mood  either,  I 
expect.    Well,  well,  we  must  be  as  gentle  with  her,  poor 


THE   FIGHT   FOR   FREEDOM  53 

child,  as  is  consistent  with  firmness,  in  her  own  interest. 
There  is  little  time  to  lose,  though.  Michael's  leave  is 
up  the  day  after  to-morrow. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  I  'm  afraid  her  heart  is  quite  broken. 
She  will  never  consent. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  It  will  mend,  Mary ;  it  will  mend. 
I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  This  whole  business 
has  much  more  to  do  with  medicine  than  morality.  When 
Margaret  understands  she  will  forgive.  After  all,  I 
ought  to  know  about  these  things  if  anyone  does,  consid- 
ering the  hundreds  of  shell-shock  cases  we  have  had  at 
the  hospital.  The  poor  fellows  are  not  responsible  .  .  . 
that's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it.  They  "ought  not  to 
be  judged  by  ordinary  standards.  Michael  probably  had 
a  sudden  nerve-storm.  Now  that  he  is  recovered  he  is 
only  too  anxious  to  make  amends.  You  know,  Mary, 
it's  a  splendid  match.  They  ought  to  be  married  to- 
morrow, and  go  away  together  for  the  rest  of  Michael's 
leave.  It  would  be  the  very  best  thing  that  could  hap- 
pen. Marriage  will  take  Margaret  away  from  those  low 
acquaintances  who  are  poisoning  her  mind  with  their 
Socialistic  theories.  And  at  least  there  can  be  no  ques- 
tion about  Michael's  love  for  her. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  It  isn't  my  idea  of  love,  I  must  say! 
And  if  he's  mad,  how  can  I  let  her  go  away  with  him? 

Mrs.  Slaughter,    I  never  said  he  was  mad. 

The  Dean  (rising  and  walking  impressively  aiout 
the  room).  Do  you  remember,  Mary,  those  profound 
words  of  the  late  poet  laureate? 

And  yet  we  trust  that,  somehow,  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill. 


54  THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

It  must  be  our  duty  to  ensure  that  good  comes  out  of 
this  terrible  affair.  That  is  where  religion  comes  in, 
Mary.  That  is  where  the  guidance  of  the  Church  is  of 
such  inestimable  importance. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  After  all,  we  can't  forget  that 
Michael  has  been  risking  his  life  for  our  safety,  for 
Margaret's  safety,  for  eighteen  months.  "We  must  re- 
member there's  a  war  on.  (sniff.)  Surely  the  least  we 
can  do,  in  common  gratitude,  is  not  to  take  too  harsh 
a  view  of  what  has  happened,  particularly  after  Mi- 
chael 's  penitent  letter.  As  the  Dean  says,  it  is  the  letter 
of  a  thorough  gentleman. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Gentlemen  didn't  give  their  future 
wives  drugged  champagne  when  I  was  a  girl  ...  as  an 
aid  to  courtship. 

The  Dean.  The  boy  yielded  to  a  sudden  temptation, 
at  a  time  of  great  nervous  strain.  After  all,  he  had 
been  thinking  of  Margaret  in  the  trenches,  day  after 
day,  for  eighteen  months.  And  on  his  return  he  was 
met  with  the  news  that  Margaret  had  heartlessly 
thrown  him  over!  Just  consider  what  a  terrible  shock 
that  must  have  been.  No  wonder  he  lost  his  moral 
balance.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  Margaret  herself 
seems  to  me  by  no  means  free  from  blame  in  this  matter. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Margaret  was  an  innocent,  unspoiled 
child. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  And  to-morrow  or  the  next  day,  if 
she  behaves  sensibly,  she  can  be  a  happy  married  woman. 
Come,  Mary,  be  reasonable. 

Mrs.  Lambert.     She  won't  be  happy. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  We  must  try  to  make  her  happy. 
"We  must  cheer  her  up — give  her  confidence — ^help  her 


THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  55 

to  forget  this  trouble  in  the  excitement  of  her  wedding. 
I  will  go  with  her  myself  and  help  her  choose  her 
trousseau.  I  know  a  place  which  specialises  in  war 
weddings.  They'll  give  her  everything  she  needs  in 
forty-eight  hours;  and  she  will  be  so  busy  she  won't 
have  a  moment's  time  in  which  to  think  about  her 
grievances. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  You  don 't  either  of  you  seem  to  real- 
ise that  the  reason  why  she  broke  off  her  engagement  with 
Michael  was  because  she  had  begun  to  care  for  somebody 
else.    That  is  what  makes  it  all  so  dreadful. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  What  ?  you  don 't  mean  that  Social- 
ist agitator  who  was  at  Eleanor  Lambert's  party,  the 
other  night?    How  could  you  have  allowed  it? 

The  Dean.  A  Socialist  agitator  ...  an  atheist !  Do 
you  actually  mean  to  tell  me  that  she  jilted  a  man  of 
her  own  class  for  a  Socialist?  But  no,  I  cannot  believe 
that  you  are  serious.  If  it  is  true,  I  regard  this  whole 
business  as  an  act  of  Providence.  Verily,  God  moves 
in  a  mysterious  way!  It  is  a  blessed  escape  for  her, 
Mary.  Any  doubts  I  may  for  a  moment  have  enter- 
tained as  to  the  necessity  for  her  marriage  with  Michael 
are  entirely  disposed  of.  Fi*om  every  point  of  view  it 
is  essential  that  the  ceremony  should  take  place  forth- 
with. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Samuel,  go  to  the  telephone  and 
speak  to  Michael.  Ask  him  to  come  round  here  as 
quickly  as  ever  he  can.  We'll  get  the  whole  thing  set- 
tled immediately.  There  is  nothing  like  prompt  action. 
Do  go,  Samuel.  The  telephone  is  in  the  hall,  Mary, 
isn't  it? 

Mrs.  Lambert.    Yes.     (Exit  The  Dean.j    (With  a 


56  THE  FIGHT  FOE  FREEDOM 

sudden  access  of  spirit.)  What  I  want  to  know  is,  where 
does  Margaret  come  in?  Samuel  can  go  and  telephone 
as  much  as  he  likes,  but  I  know  Margaret.  After  all, 
she 's  my  own  daughter.  She  won 't  marry  anyone  against 
her  own  will.    We  can't  force  her  to  marry  Michael. 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (her  voice  rich  with  diplomacy).  No, 
of  course  not,  but  we  can  put  the  whole  position  to  her 
kindly  and  reasonably.  She'll  be  a  sensible  girl  and 
do  the  right  thing  when  it  comes  to  the  point.  I  feel 
certain  of  it.  Just  let  me  talk  to  her,  Mary.  Hadn't 
we  better  ask  her  to  come  down  now,  while  Samuel  is 
out  of  the  room? 

Mrs.  Lambert.     Yes,  I  suppose  so. 

CMrs.  Slaughter  gets  up,  and  walks  across  the  room  to 
the  fireplace,  and  presses  the  hell  with  determinor 
tion.) 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Of  course,  I  know  how  terribly 
upset  the  darling  child  must  be.  It  has  been  a  fearful 
shock  to  her  nerves.  But  she'll  get  over  it.  She'll  get 
over  it. 

(Enter  Parlour-maid.^ 

Maid.    Did  you  ring,  m'am? 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Yes,  Wilkins.  Just  ask  Miss  Mar- 
garet if  she  would  mind  coming  down  to  the  drawing- 
room  for  a  moment. 

Maid,    Yes,  m'am.  (Exit.) 

Mrs.  Lambert  (furious  with  Mrs.  Slaughter  for 
ordering  her  maid  about).    Margaret  will  never  forgive 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FEEEDOM  57 

me  for  having  told  you.  She  hates  me  talking  about 
her  or  her  affairs. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Really,  Mary,  considering  that  I'm 
her  godmother  .  .  .  and  that  the  Dean  baptised  her, 
and  that  we  have  known  Philip  and  Michael  ever  since 
they  were  infants  in  arms,  I  think  even  Margaret  will 
admit  that  we  had  a  right  to  be  told.  Who  is  there 
better  fitted  to  give  her  help  and  advice  in  this  time  of 
trouble  than  Samuel? 

Mrs.  Lambert.  You  know  quite  well,  Janey,  that  I 
consult  Samuel  in  everything.  He  is  the  first  person  I 
turn  to  for  help  in  any  difficulty.  But  Margaret  is  such 
a  very  queer  girl.  Do  you  know,  she  actually  told 
Eleanor  the  whole  story  before  she  told  me ! 

]\Irs.  Slaughter  (visibly  shaken).  Mary,  you  don't 
say  so!  Eleanor  is  the  very  last  person  who  ought  to 
have  been  brought  into  this  business  at  all.  Her  in- 
fluence over  Margaret  has  from  the  first  been  most  un- 
fortunate. It  is  my  belief  that  Eleanor  Lambert  is 
really  responsible  for  the  whole  affair,  (sniff.)  If  Mar- 
garet hadn't  jilted  Michael  he  would  never  have — er — 
lost  his  head  as  he  did. 

^Margaret  corrws  into  the  room.  She  is  very  pale,  Tier 
eyelids  are  red,  and  she  looks  wretchedly  HI.  The 
condition  of  her  nerves  is  at  once  apparent,  as  she 
glances  apprehensively  about  her.) 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (rushing  forward  and  implanting 
a  maternal  embrace).  My  poor  darling!  ('Margaret 
shudders  and  winces  as  if  she  had  been  struck.  She 
looks  appealingly  at  her  mother.) 


58  THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

Margaret,     Do  you  want  me  for  something,  mother? 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (taking  command  again).  Yes,  my 
darling  child,  we  have  some  happy  news  for  you.  .  .  . 
There  now!    Things  aren't  as  bad  as  they  seem. 

Margaret  (coldly  and  enunciating  Tier  words  witJi 
difficulty).  1  am  afraid  I  don't  understand,  Mrs. 
Slaughter.    I'm  not  expecting  any  happy  news. 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (regardless  of  the  warning  note  in 
Margaret's  voice).  My  dear,  your  mother  has  had  a 
long  and  most  honourable  letter  from  Michael. 

Margaret  (turning  to  Mrs.  Lambert j.  Mother! 
How  could  you?  .  .  .  How  could  you  be  so  cruel?  (Slie 
sinks  into  a  cTiair,  sohhing,  Tier  face  covered  hy  Tier  two 
white  "hands.) 

Mrs.  Lambert  (overcome  with  emotion,  a  pathetic  hut 
rather  ludicrous  figure  in  her  distress).  Margaret,  my 
dear!  What  could  I  do?  I  had  to  ask  advice.  It  was 
all  so  difficult.    I  meant  it  for  the  best.    Indeed  I  did. 

Margaret  (in  a  hurst  of  anger).  What  right  had 
you  to  discuss  what  happened  to  me  with  anyone  at  all, 
without  my  leave  ?    I  'm  not  a  child. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Margaret,  you  amaze  me!  Surely 
you  can  trust  your  parent's  life-long  friends.  Your 
own  godmother.  .  .  .  The  Dean,  who  received  you  into 
the  Church.    Your  honour  is  our  honour,  darling. 

Margaret.  Never.  Every  woman's  honour  is  in  her 
own  keeping.  When  I  need  help  I  have  a  tongue  in  my 
head.    I  can  ask  for  it. 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (to  Mrs.  Lambert j.  T  am  afraid  the 
poor  child  is  in  a  sadly  unreasonable  and  overwrought 
condition!  (To  Margaret.^  Listen,  Margaret.  I  quite 
understand  how  you  feel,  dear.   But  you  must  remember 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  59 

that  we  are  older  than  you  and  we  have  seen  a  good 
deal  more  of  the  world.  Our  one  idea — our  sole  desire, 
Margaret — is  to  help  you  to  do  what  is  best  in  your 
own  interests.  It  was  only  her  great  love  for  you  which 
prompted  your  dear  mother  to  seek  the  advice  of  the 
Dean  and  myself.  ... 

Margaret  (scornfully).  She  always  seeks  his  advice 
— if  the  cook  gives  notice,  or  the  fire  doesn't  draw,  or 
her  investments  don't  pay.  It's  a  habit.  But  this  .  .  . 
this  is  too  much. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Margaret,  you  are  breaking  my 
heart. 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (ingratiatingly).  Try  to  calm  your- 
self, my  dear.  Let  me  tell  you  as  simply  as  I  can  what 
has  happened,  and  then  think  over  the  whole  position. 

Margaret.  What  do  you  imagine  I  have  been  doing, 
then?    Think  it  over! 

Mrs.  SLAtTGHTER.  Margaret,  listen  to  me.  Michael 
is  bitterly  sorry  for  the  injury  he  did  you  ...  he  has 
written  your  mother  a  most  manly  letter.  His  whole 
existence  is  bound  up  in  you.  He  begs  for  your  for- 
giveness. There  is  nothing  in  the  world  he  wants  more 
than  to  marry  you  at  once — ^before  he  goes  back  to 
France.  Consider,  Margaret.  Don't  be  hard.  When  he 
goes  back  to  the  front,  think  what  may  be  in  store  for 
him !  It  may  be  that  after  this  week  you  may  never  see 
him  again. 

Margaret.  I  shall  never  see  him  again  if  I  can 
avoid  it. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.    Margaret! 

Margaret.  Oh,  I  don't  want  him  to  beldlled,  if  that 
is  what  you  are  thinking.  I  mean  exactly  what  I  say. 


60  THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Well,  you  are  an  extraordinary 
girl,  I  must  say.  Why  make  the  worst  of  things,  my 
dear?  You  might  be  so  happy.  A  real  war  wedding! 
The  Dean  himself  would  perform  the  ceremony.  All 
your  friends  would  be  here  to  wish  you  well!  Come 
now.  .  .  . 

Margaret.  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Slaughter.  I  don't 
want  any  war  wedding.  I'm  sick  to  death  of  the  war. 
Michael  knows  very  well  that  I  can  never  marry  him. 
What  he  did  was  his  revenge.    He  has  bluffed  you  all. 

(Enter  Dean  Slaughter,  j 

The  Dean  (smiling  with  satisfaction).  Ah!  there 
we  are!  My  dear  child!  (Takes  Margaret's  hands.) 
Such  good  news !    Cheer  up,  all  will  come  right ! 

Margaret.    Will  it?    How? 

The  Dean.  You  will  forgive,  Margaret,  as  God  in 
His  great  mercy  will  forgive  you.  If  you  marry  Mich- 
ael, as  I  hope  you  will,  my  dear,  you  will  have  a  good 
husband.  And  you  will  be  able  to  keep  him  in  order. 
I  know  it;  I  know  it.  Often  marriages  which  begin 
badly  turn  out  the  happiest  of  all. 

Margaret.     There  is  not  going  to  be  a  marriage. 

The  Dean.  Surely,  my  dear  .  .  .  after  Michael's 
letter !  His  sole  desire  is  to  undo  the  evil  he  has  done. 
You  cannot  refuse  him.  .  .  . 

Margaret.  Oh,  what  do  I  care  about  his  letter. 
Can't  any  of  you  understand? 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  It  is  just  because  we  do  under- 
stand, Margaret,  because  we  understand  something  of 
life,  that  we  are  begging  you  to  be  sensible. 


THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM  61 

Margaret.  I  won't  marry  Michael  Henderson.  I 
don't  care  what  you  say.  Mother,  let  me  go.  Why 
are  you  letting  me  be  persecuted  like  this? 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Oh,  my  child,  I  am  so  unhappy.  But 
the  Dean  mtist  be  right.    I  know  he  is. 

Margaret.  It's  nobody's  business  but  mine,  and  I 
won't  do  it. 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (severely).  Now,  listen  to  me,  Mar- 
garet. We  are  all  older  than  you  are,  and  perhaps  just 
a  little  bit  wiser  and  more  experienced.  We  know  ex- 
actly how  you  feel.  .  .  . 

Margaret.    I  don't  believe  it. 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (keeping  Jierself  in  check).  Whether 
you  believe  it  or  not,  it  is  true.  You  won't  succeed  in 
antagonising  me,  my  dear,  no  matter  what  you  say. 

Margaret.  No,  I  suppose  you  won't  allow  me  even 
that  satisfaction. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  We  have  your  interests  too  much 
at  heart.  Some  day  you  will  realise  it  and  be  grateful 
to  us.  We  are  thinking  of  the  future,  Margaret.  We 
can't  let  your  whole  life  be  ruined  by  this  .  .  .  this 
misfortune.  Michael  is  only  too  anxious  to  give  you 
the  protection  of  his  name. 

Margaret.     How  magnanimous  of  him! 

The  Dean.  Your  tone  pains  me  inexpressibly,  my 
child.  Surely  you  will  not  forget  your  duty  as  a 
Christian.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Try  not  to  be  so  hard,  Margaret. 
Why  can't  you  be  a  little  generous?  He  does  really 
love  you.  .  .  .  For  a  year  and  a  half  he  has  been  risk- 
ing his  life  .  .  .  for  you.  Try  to  make  allowances  for 
the  terrible  effect  which  the  war  has  had  on  the  poor 


62  THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

fellow.  Think  of  the  awful  strain  of  the  trenches  .  .  . 
month  after  month!  You  cared  for  him  once,  enough 
to  become  engaged  to  him.  Surely  your  love  is  not 
completely  dead? 

Margaret  (rising).  Mrs.  Slaughter,  please  don't  go 
on.  I  shall  not  bring  an  action  against  Michael — I  don 't 
want  the  man  imprisoned.  I  am  not  vindictive.  But 
I  will  not  marrj^  him.     I  know  him. 

Mrs.  Lambert.    Margaret,  dear! 

The  Dean.  What  preposterous  nonsense !  Action  in- 
deed! Why,  it  would  ruin  you!  The  publicity!  The 
scandal !  And,  what  is  more,  no  judge  would  dream  of 
convicting — and  quite  rightly. 

Margaret.  Wasn  't  your  gardener  convicted  ?  Sha  'n  't 
we  convict  the  Germans  when  we  get  the  chance,  for 
their  atrocities?  And  haven't  they  undergone  the  strain 
of  war?    Why  should  Michael  be  excused? 

CEleanor  Lambert  is  shown  into  the  room 
hy  the  servant.) 

The  Dean  (hotly).  The  cases  are  absolutely  differ- 
ent.   There  is  not  a  shadow  of  resemblance  between  them. 

Miss  Lambert  (to  Mrs.  Lambert).  Good  afternoon, 
Mary.  (To  The  Dean  and  Mrs.  Slaughter.)  Good 
afternoon,  Janey.  Well,  Samuel !  (shakes  hands.)  Mar- 
garet, my  dear,  you  look  like  Daniel  in  the  lions'  den, 
but  evidently  you  haven't  his  technique. 

Margaret  (weeping).  Oh,  Aunt  Eleanor!  (she  huries 
her  head  on  her  aunt's  breast.  Miss  Lambert  puts  for 
a  moment  a  strong,  protecting  arm  round  her,  then  forces 
her  hack  into  her  cliair.) 


THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM  63 

Miss  Lambert.  There,  sit  down,  Margaret.  What  is 
all  this  about,  pray?  Are  you  conducting  the  inquest, 
Samuel?    What  case  is  different  from  what,  may  I  ask? 

Margaret.  The  De^n  says  that  Michael's  behaviour 
is  quite  different  from  his  gardener's.  He  had  the  gar- 
dener put  in  prison  ...  he  wants  me  to  marry  Michael. 

The  Dean  (seriously  disconcerted).  I  appeal  to  you, 
Eleanor  ...  if  you  have  the  least  good  feeling!  The 
child  is  beside  herself. 

Miss  Lambert.  I  haven't  any  good  feeling,  Samuel: 
not  a  rap.  You  ought  to  know  me  by  this  time !  Why 
shouldn't  Michael  Henderson  share  your  gardener's  fate, 
pray,  if  he  has  committed  the  same  offence? 

The  Dean  (impressively).  I  shall  not  discuss  the 
matter  with  you,  Eleanor.  If  the  sacrifices  which  Mich- 
ael has  made  for  his  country  mean  nothing  to  you  .  .  . 

Miss  Lambert.  Aha!  I  thought  we  should  come  to 
it — the  famous  "unwritten  law"! — the  law  which  de- 
crees that  women  are  the  slaves  of  their  **  defenders, " 
that  they  may  be  outraged  with  impunity,  that  their 
lovers  may  be  murdered,  and  so  on!  A  fine  law.  .  .  . 
And  how  enthusiastically  you  stick  up  for  it,  Samuel! 

The  Dean  (Jiauglitily).  I  am  quite  indifferent  to 
your  insults,  Eleanor.  I  shall  endeavour  to  do  my  duty 
undeterred. 

Miss  Lambert.  You  mean  you'll  try  to  force  this 
child  into  marrying  a  man  who,  if  he  is  not  a  criminal, 
is  certainly  a  lunatic  .  .  .  just  because  he  wears  a  khaki 
coat! 

Margaret,    I  will  die  rather  than  marry  him. 

Miss  Lambert.  If  you  take  my  advice  you'll  do 
neither. 


64  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

The  Dean  (trermdous  with  anger).  Beware,  Eleanor, 
how  you  come  between  Margaret  and  her  duty  as  a 
Christian !    Beware,  I  tell  you !  .  .  . 

Miss  Lambert.  Christian  fiddlesticks!  (Turning 
sharply  on  Mrs.  Lambert.^  Mary,  I  hope  you  treated 
this  infamous  proposal  with  the  contempt  it  deserved? 

Mrs.  Lambert.  I  have  to  think  of  the  child's  future. 
And  I  believe  the  Dean  is  right. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  You  really  can't  expect  Christian 
people  to  adopt  your  heathen  standpoint,  Eleanor.  We 
are  well  aware  that  you  have  no  patriotic  feeling. 

Miss  Lambert.  If  patriotic  feeling  should  urge  you 
to  open  a  maison  toleree  as  an  annex  to  your  hospital 
for  officers,  I  certainly  should  not  ask  Margaret  to  vol- 
unteer for  inclusion  in  it. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  I  don't  care  tuppence  for  your 
jibes,  Eleanor.  Margaret  will  have  to  live  in  the  world 
as  she  finds  it.  The  great  mass  of  our  people  honour 
and  respect  our  brave  lads,  even  if  you  don't.  Michael 
has  suffered  terribly  in  his  country's  cause,  and  no 
decent  man  or  woman  would  condemn  him,  or  judge 
him  harshly. 

The  Dean  (icily).  All  Margaret's  friends  and  rela- 
tions, yourself  excepted,  will  take  the  view  that  we  do, 
Eleanor. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Really,  you  know,  Eleanor  .  .  .  there 
is  a  good  deal  in  that.    I  can't  help  .  .  . 

Miss  Lambert.  My  dear  Mary,  why  will  you  always 
do  anything  except  think  ?  The  country  has  been  rotted 
by  this  kind  of  appeal  to  shoddy  sentiment.  It  makes 
me  perfectly  sick.  .  .  .  Nowadays  you  have  only  to  make 
an  hysterical  reference  to  **our  brave  lads"  to  carry  an 


THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM  65 

audience  with  you — regardless  of  right  and  wrong,  of 
truth,  justice,  and  even  common  sense.  What  do  you 
care  for  our  brave  lads,  Samuel,  I  should  like  to  know ! 
You  are  always  preaching  "the  knock-out-blow";  you 
are  always  pointing  out  the  dangers  of  concluding  any 
kind  of  peace  that  may  be  in  time  to  save  the  world 
from  famine  and  revolution.  You  would  sacrifice  a  mil- 
lion lives  to-morrow,  rather  than  surrender  one  ingrained 
prejudice.  And  nearly  all  the  Englishmen  of  your  age 
and  class  are  like  you. 

The  Dean.  A  pacifist  discourse  was  not  expected 
from  you,  Eleanor.  But  may  I  remind  you  that  we  are 
discussing  Margaret's  future  happiness?  At  this  mo- 
ment the  child's  whole  future  is  at  stake.  All  this  po- 
litical discussion,  if  I  may  say  so,  is  absolutely  irrelevant. 

Miss  Lambert.  I  have  no  doubt  it  seems  so  to  you. 
But  if  you  thought  it  over,  Samuel,  you  might  realise 
that  this  war  "for  the  world's  freedom"  is  the  arch- 
atrocity  from  which  all  the  other  minor  atrocities  spring. 
"War  sets  free  the  beast  in  man — and  it  often  sets  free 
the  bitch  and  the  hyena  in  woman.  It  is  a  plague. 
Michael  Henderson  is  suffering  from  this  plague. 
Through  no  fault  of  his  own  he  is  infected,  contaminated 
by  it;  but  Margaret,  so  far,  is  healthy.  Now  you  are 
clamouring  for  her  to  sacrifice  herself  also  to  be  ruined 
by  this  evil  thing.  Do  you  really  want  the  youth  of  both 
sexes  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  greed  and  wickedness  of  the 
old?  I  thought  it  was  only  the  blood  of  our  boys  you 
thirsted  for!  Apparently  you  want  the  virtue  of  our 
girls  as  well  to  be  offered  up  at  the  altar  of  your  false 
gods! 

The  Dean  (derisively).    Really,  Eleanor,  you  are  for- 


66  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

getting  yourself.  This  sort  of  talk  is  most  unpleasant 
before  Margaret.  I  am  old-fashioned  enough  to  be  dis- 
gusted that  such  a  conversation  should  take  place  before 
a  young  girl. 

Margaret.  Are  young  girls  not  allowed  to  hear  the 
truth  in  old-fashioned  circles,  Dean — even  when  their 
"whole  future"  is  at  stake? 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  The  truth,  my  dear,  is  that  Michael 
Henderson  has  made  a  slip — as  we  all  may  do — and 
that  he  is  sincerely  penitent.  He  loves  you  devotedly 
and  will  make  you  an  excellent  husband.  You  will  re- 
gret it  all  the  days  of  your  life  if  you  condemn  him 
harshly,  if  you  go  on  nourishing  these  vindictive  thoughts 
and  listening  to  evil  counsel. 

Margaret  (sullenly).  I've  said  I  won't  prosecute 
him. 

The  Dean.  If  you  were  foolish  enough  to  attempt 
anything  so  monstrous,  you  would  find  that  my  view  is 
the  view  held  by  all  our  ablest  judges.  And  what  is 
the  reason,  I  ask  myself?  The  reason  is  that  they  are 
Christian  men,  and  obey  the  ruling  of  our  grand  old 
established  Church. 

Miss  Lambert.  Well,  Samuel,  I'm  quite  prepared  to 
champion  the  cause  of  our  poor  boys  and  girls,  and  of 
our  suffering  humanity.  But  as  for  our  sentimental 
magistrates  and  our  judges,  with  softening  of  the  brain 
(not  to  speak  of  our  grand  old  Church),  it's  my  opinion 
that  it  would  be  far  better  for  this  country  if  they  could 
be  exported  to  the  front,  and  used  as  cannon  fodder. 
It  is  high  time  the  judges  who  have  upheld  this  wicked 
"unwritten  law" — that  a  man  in  uniform  can  do  no 
wrong — ^were  put  on  trial  themselves.     Why,  they  do 


THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  67 

what  the  gutter  newspapers  tell  them  more  readily  even 
than  our  politicians ! 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (sniffs).  Eleanor  is  evidently  get- 
ting on  to  her  tub.  This  is  not  Hyde  Park  corner, 
Eleanor. 

Miss  Lambert  (laughing  JieartUy).  Ha!  I  shall  go 
on,  though,  Janey.  There's  no  escape  for  you.  It  is 
thanks  to  our  **  Christian"  judges  and  the  police  court 
magistrates  whom  Samuel  admires  so  much,  that  women 
in  England  have  time  and  again  been  degraded  and  in- 
sulted. Wives  have  become  mere  chattels  of  husbands 
whom  they  loathe.  Their  lovers  are  now  liable  to  be 
murdered  with  impunity,  and  the  murderer  is  acquitted 
and  made  a  popular  hero.  And  if  you  think  the  sacred 
cause  of  the  Allies  is  going  to  be  benefited  by  regulation 
40D,  which  turns  all  young  and  desirable  women  into 
slaves  who  can  be  either  outraged  or  persecuted  by  any 
maniac  in  uniform  who  takes  a  fancy  to  them,  I  'm  sorry 
for  you.  How  on  earth  you  expect  us  to  work  ourselves 
into  a  frenzy  over  tales  of  German  atrocities  when  you 
condone  similar  acts  committed  by  our  own  men,  and 
our  own  Government,  I  can't  imagine!  If  you  really 
believed  in  the  Christianity  you  profess  .  .  .  (sJirugs 
her  shoulders.) 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  We  don't  pretend  to  be  authorities 
on  suffragette  ethics,  Eleanor.  We  are  here  to  try  to 
save  Margaret. 

Margaret.  I  don't  see  who  is  to  save  me  unless  I 
save  myself.    I  am  old  enough  to  mind  my  own  business. 

The  Dean.  My  dear  girl,  there  is  only  one  way  to 
save  yourself,  and  that  is  by  putting  your  trust  in 
Almighty  God  and  obeying  the  word  of  Christ.     Try 


68  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

to  cultivate  a  little  Christian  charity.  A  great  wrong 
has  been  done  you,  but  now  is  just  the  time  to  return 
good  for  evil,  Margaret,  with  my  own  hands  I  baptised 
you  when  you  were  a  tiny  child.  Be  guided  now  by 
me  in  this  hour  of  distraction  and  bitterness.  If  you 
delay  your  decision  till  after  Michael  has  gone  back  it 
may  be  too  late. 

Margaret.  Oh,  why  do  you  go  on  at  me  like  this? 
What  harm  have  I  done  you  all?  I  hate  Michael!  I 
will  not  marry  him,  not  if  he  goes  on  his  knees  to  me! 
Why  are  you  all  bent  on  persecuting  me?  The  Dean 
crushes  me  with  his  religion.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Slaughter  gives 
me  good  advice.  .  .  .  My  mother  weeps.  (Screams.) 
Oh!  you  are  all  like  surgeons  cutting  at  my  very  heart. 
I  can't  bear  it.  Leave  me  alone — I  can't  bear  it.  I 
hate  your  Christianity — hate  it,  hate  it,  hate  it! 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (to  the  Dean  J.  It  is  evidently  hope- 
less to  try  to  talk  to  her  while  she  is  in  her  present 
frame  of  mind. 

Miss  Lambert.  Then  why  not  leave  her  to  do  as 
she  pleases  ?  She  has  a  mind  and  ^vill  of  her  own.  She 
is  a  free  agent.  Why  don't  you  grant  her  self-determi- 
nation, Samuel?  She  isn't  an  Irish  girl,  after  all! 
(laughs  heartily  at  her  joke.) 

The  Dean.    I  have  a  duty  to  perform. 

Miss  Lambert.  And  so  has  her  mother.  Mary,  what 
do  you  say?  (She  looks  at  Mrs.  Lambert,  who  is  dis- 
solved in  tears  and  incapable  of  speech,  and  shrugs  her 
shoulders  humorously.) 

The  Dean.  Margaret,  I  must  say  one  word  more, 
then  I  have  finished.  I  ask  you  most  earnestly  to  con- 
sider well  before  you  decide.    You  have  it  in  your  power 


THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM  69 

now  not  only  to  ensure  your  own  future  happiness,  but 
to  save  Michael's  soul.  If  you  refuse  him  I  am  much 
afraid  that  you  will  drive  him  to  evil  courses.  He  will 
despair.  .  .  .  He  will  go  under.  But  Michael  is  good 
at  heart.  His  manly  letter  proves  it  absolutely.  All 
that  he  needs  to  keep  him  straight  is  the  softening  in- 
fluence of  a  good  and  pure  woman,  the  ... 

Margaret  (bitterly).  But  I  suppose,  according  to 
your  code,  I  am  no  longer  * '  good  and  pure, ' ' 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Margaret!  how  can  you?  (Then, 
ivitJi  resignation.)  "Well,  I'm  sure  we've  done  our  best 
for  you.  It  certainly  will  not  be  our  fault  if  you  cut 
off  your  nose  to  spite  your  face, 

Margaret.  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  seem  ungrateful  to 
you,  Mrs,  Slaughter;  I  am  sure  you  mean  it  all  very 
kindly,  but  I  really  have  no  vocation  to  become  a  rescue 
woman.  (With  a  touch  of  malice.)  I  am  quite  sure  you 
yourself  would  do  Michael  much  more  good  than  I  am 
ever  likely  to. 

Miss  Lambert.  Excellent !  excellent ! — a  most  sensible 
suggestion.  The  difficulty  is  solved — provided,  of  course, 
that  the  Dean  has  no  qualms.  After  all,  those  whose 
mission  it  is  to  preach  self-sacrifice  to  others  ought  to 
be  willing  to  show  the  way  in  person.  You  are  quite 
cut  out  for  this  task,  Janey.  You  shall  accomplish  the 
reformation  of  Michael,  while  his  victim  escapes  the 
martyrdom  so  piously  urged  upon  her.     Delightful! 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  You  are  very  clever,  Eleanor.  We 
all  know  that.  But  what  will  happen  to  Margaret  if 
she  listens  to  you,  I  shotild  like  to  know? 

Miss  Lambert.  If  she  listens  to  me,  she  will  do  ex- 
actly as  she  herself  thinks  best. 


70  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  You  may  try  to  dodge  your  re- 
sponsibility as  much  as  you  please,  but  the  fact  remains 
that  the  fate  to  which  you  are  trying  to  condemn  the 
poor  girl  is  heart-breaking  to  think  of.  You  evidently 
wish  her  to  live  out  her  life  as  a  marked  woman,  nursing 
her  grievance.  You  want  her  to  grow  old  in  spite  and 
resentment,  to  become  soured  and  aged  at  twenty-two — 
in  order,  I  suppose,  that  she  may  appear  on  some  politi- 
cal platform  and  support  you  in  some  contemptible,  un- 
English  propaganda !  I  have  no  desire  to  shock  this  un- 
fortunate child  by  referring  to  unpleasant  facts,  Eleanor, 
but  you  leave  me  no  alternative.  "We  have  to  face  the 
possibility  of  consequences.  .  .  . 

The  Dean.  Er — I  think,  Janey,  we  need  not  touch 
on  that  aspect  of  the  matter.  .  .  . 

Margaret  (calmly).  I  suppose  you  mean,  Mrs. 
Slaughter,  that  there  is  some  prospect  of  my  having  a 
baby,  and  that,  therefore,  if  I  have  any  sense  I  must 
jump  at  any  chance  that  offers  of  providing  it  with  a 
father.  Surely  there  is  no  need  to  mince  matters.  That 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  one  and  only  real  argument  for 
my  marrying  Michael.  It  would  save  the  family  from 
the  possibility  of  a  scandal. 

Mrs.  Lambert  (galvanised  wifh  Tiorror).  Margaret! 
How  can  you  say  such  things? 

Miss  Lambert.    The  point — at  last! 

The  Dean.    Nonsense. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  You  force  me  to  think  that  you 
have  very  little  delicacy.  However,  since  you  have 
chosen  to  be  explicit,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  your 
only  chance  of  marrying  in  your  own  class  is  to  marry 
Michael  Henderson. 


THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM  71 

Miss  Lambert.  "What  a  class,  and  what  a  condem- 
nation ! 

Mrs.  Lambert  (tearfully).  My  darling,  I  am  bound 
to  agree  with  what  the  Dean  and  your  godmother  tell 
you.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  am,  Eleanor.  It's  no  use  your  glaring 
at  me !  I  'm  a  good  churchwoman.  I  always  have  been, 
and  I  hope  I  always  shall  be.  I  brought  you  up  to  go 
to  church,  Margaret.  It  isn't  my  fault  if  you  ivill  go  off 
to  the  Oratory  to  hear  the  music.  The  music  at  St. 
Mary  Abbott's  is  every  bit  as  good,  and  I  always  told 
you  so. 

Margaret  (with  melancholy  amusement).  I  'm  afraid, 
mummy,  I  can't  follow  the  argument. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Oh,  my  dearest  girl,  you  don't  know 
the  dangers  that  await  you,  if  you  refuse  to  marry 
Michael  Henderson! 

]VIargaret.  But  I  know  very  well  the  degradation 
in  store  for  me  ii  1  do  marry  him.  Mother,  I  can't 
stand  this  any  more.  You  must  let  me  go.  ...  I'm 
not  a  coward  .  .  .  and  I'm  not  so  utterly  ignorant  of 
life  as  you  all  seem  to  suppose.  It  is  my  trouble,  not 
yours. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Very  well,  Margaret.  You  will 
only  have  yourself  to  blame  for  it  if  disaster  overtakes 
you.    Don't  look  to  us  for  help  and  sympathy.  .  .  . 

Miss  Lambert.  When  she  needs  it — Oh  dear  no! 
Only  when  she  doesn't  need  it  is  it  thrust  upon  her! 
How  utterly  Christian,  Janey  I 

The  Dean.  Mary,  this  is  really  too  much.  I  came 
here,  at  your  express  invitation,  solely  to  try  to  help 
Margaret.  I  did  not  come  here  to  bandy  words  with 
Eleanor.    I  wash  my  hands  of  the  matter,  absolutely. 


72  THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM 

Miss  Lambert.  Like  Pontius  Pilate !  So  the  sacrifice 
is  off.  The  victim  proves  recalcitrant!  Well,  I'm  very- 
glad  she  does,  though  I'm  really  sorry  if  I  have  an- 
noyed you,  Samuel. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  I'm  sure  you  couldn't  help  it! 
(Sniffs  violently.) 

The  Dean  (turning  to  Mrs.  Lambert^.  Good-bye, 
Mary.  I  did  my  best.  (They  shake  hands.  A  ring  is 
heard  at  the  hall  door.)  Why,  good  gracious;  that  must 
be  Philip  and  Michael.  We  forgot  all  about  them !  Most 
unfortunate ! 

Margaret  (her  voice  rises  almost  to  a  scream).  You 
told  that  man  to  come  here !  OTi,  how  shameful !  Aunt 
Eleanor,  Aunt  Eleanor,  come  with  me!  I  won't  meet 
him:  I  won't!  (Rushes  to  the  door,  dragging  Miss  Lam- 
bert with  her.  The  door  suddenly  opens  before  she  can 
get  to  it.  Her  escape  cut  off,  she  retreats  at  once  to  the 
far  end  of  the  rootn,  followed  hy  her  aunt.  She  remains 
there  sobbing,  with  her  back  turned  to  the  others.) 

Maid.  Captain  Michael  Henderson  .  .  .  Mr.  Philip 
Henderson.  (The  two  men,  both  looking  very  solemn, 
shake  hands  with  Mrs.  Lambert,  and  with  The  Dean 
and  Mrs.  Slaughter.  They  bow  to  Eleanor  Lambert 
and  to  Margaret's  back.) 

The  Dean.  Michael,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  was  too 
optimistic  when  I  telephoned  to  you  just  now.  Our 
efforts  have  been  in  vain.  Mrs.  Slaughter  and  myself 
were  just  making  our  departure  when  you  came. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  I  am  afraid  Margaret  prefers  to 
listen  to  her  aunt's  advice  than  to  ours. 

Michael  (looks  steadily  at  Margaret j.    Margaret . . . 


THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM  73 

Margaret  (ahnost  inaudibly).  How  do  you  dare 
come  here  to  persecute  me  ? 

Michael.  Margaret,  hear  me  out  ...  I  beg  of  you. 
I  have  come  to  tell  you  before  everyone  that  I  am  bit- 
terly sorry  for  the  wrong  I  did  you.  I  must  have  been 
mad.  Margaret,  can't  you  try  to  forgive  me?  Let  us 
be  married  before  I  go  back.  It  is  more  than  likely  that 
you  will  never  see  me  again. 

The  Dean.  A  very  manly  confession.  It  does  you 
credit,  my  dear  boy.    I  knew  I  was  right. 

Miss  Lambert  (truculently.  Producing  Tier  face-dr 
main).  Manly  fiddlesticks!  Obviously  he  ought  to  be 
in  a  hospital,  A  sedative,  absolute  quiet,  and  plenty  of 
fresh  air  is  my  prescription.  Really,  Mary,  it  is  high 
time  you  exerted  yourself  and  put  an  end  to  this  farce. 

Philip.  Oh  Lord,  oh  Lord!  This  is  simply  awful! 
(lie  gazes  round  Jiim  in  comical  distress.)  I  feel  just  as 
if  I  'd  caused  the  whole  trouble  myself. 

Miss  Lambert  (cheerfully  Jieartless).  My  dear  boy, 
you  are  by  no  means  guiltless.    Don't  think  it. 

Michael  (savagely,  to  Miss  Lambert j.  It  was  you 
who  first  set  Margaret  against  me,  when  I  was  away  in 
France.    Now  you  are  poisoning  her  mind  again. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Yes,  how  about  your  own  responsi- 
bility, Eleanor? 

Philip.  Oh,  for  goodness'  sake  don't  let  us  stand 
about  saying  the  most  appalling  things  to  one  another! 
Mrs.  Lambert,  this  is  terrible  for  poor  Margaret.  .  .  . 
Margaret,  my  dear  girl,  I  am  so  awfully  sorry  for  this 
.  .  .  unfortunate  scene.  I  never  dreamt  it  would  be  like 
this.  I  honestly  thought,  from  what  the  Dean  said 
over  the  telephone,  that  you'd  decided  to  give  Michael 


74  THE   FIGHT  FOR   FREEDOM 

a  chance.  Otherwise  I  wouldn't  have  come  or  let  Mm 
come.  I  hoped  that  everything  was  going  to  be  happy 
and  jolly  once  more.  Oh  Lord!  (sighs.  Then,  to  Mi- 
chael.^   We'd  better  go,  Michael.    Come  on. 

Michael.    Thanks.    You  are  not  my  keeper. 

Miss  Lambert  (softening).  Oh,  what  an  Englishman 
you  are,  Philip!  Anything  to  avoid  unpleasantness! 
Personally,  I  thoroughly  enjoy  a  scene.  .  .  . 

Margaret.  Aunt  Eleanor,  I  can't  bear  this  any 
longer.  Do  take  me  away  from  here.  Please!  If  they 
won't  go,  I  must.     (Moves  slowly  towards  door.) 

Miss  Lambert.  It  is  really  disgraceful,  Mary,  letting 
this  lunatic  be  sent  for.    Are  you  absolutely  inhuman? 

Michael,  Margaret,  I  beg  you  once  again  to  forgive 
me.  I  will  do  absolutely  anything  you  ask  if  you  will 
only  marry  me  and  let  me  try  to  make  amends  to  you. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Oh,  my  dear  chick,  don't  be  too  hard 
on  Michael.  Don't!  Think  it  over  quietly,  my  love. 
Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  I  don't  know  what  to  do  for  the 
best.    I  don't  know  what  to  do. 

Miss  Lambert.     Then  why  do  anything,  Mary? 

Mrs.  Lambert.  I  know  I  seem  to  be  against  her, 
Eleanor.  .  ,  .  But  I  can't  help  it.  The  future  looks  so 
terrible.  (To  Margaret.^  You  nmist  remember,  dearie, 
the  Dean  is  a  clergyman  .  .  .  and  clergymen  really 
ought  to  be  able  to  advise  us  on  points  like  this.  It  is 
their  business. 

Margaret  (hitterly).  Mother,  will  you  never  remem- 
ber that  I  am  no  longer  in  the  nursery.  You  make  me 
wish  I  had  never  told  you.  I  wish  I  never  had.  I  might 
have  been  spared  this  infamous  treatment. 


THE   FIGHT  FOR   FREEDOM  75 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  ' '  Infamous  treatment ! ' ' — ^Infamous 
ingratitude ! 

Michael.    Margaret  .  .  .  hear  me! 

Margaret  (shrinking  away  from  Mm).  No,  no,  never! 
I  would  sooner  die  than  marry  you.  You  may  be  able 
to  deceive  my  mother,  but  you  can't  deceive  me.  What 
you  did  to  me,  you  planned  out  of  revenge.  You  only 
want  to  marry  me  now  out  of  revenge.  It  is  all  because 
I  told  you  our  engagement  was  a  mistake  .  .  .  and  about 
Oliver  Beeching.  You  are  vain  and  jealous  and  cruel, 
and  I  loathe  you. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  Good  gracious,  child!  Oliver 
Beeching,  indeed!  So  that  is  the  man  you  jilted  poor 
Michael  for!  It's  the  name  of  that  Socialist  person, 
Samuel.  .  .  . 

The  Dean.  Then  it  is  serious?  I  could  scarcely 
believe  it  when  you  first  told  me.  This  is  deplorable, 
utterly  deplorable!  Really,  Mary,  whatever  happens, 
you  cannot  allow  this  intrigue  to  continue!  The  man 
Beeching  is  a  criminal  agitator  of  the  lowest  type,  who 
is  doing  his  best  to  wreck  the  whole  fabric  of  society. 
I  am  inexpressibly  shocked. 

Miss  Lambert.  I  am  glad  something  has  touched 
you  at  last,  Samuel. 

Mrs.  Lambert.  I  didn't  know  you  had  told  Michael 
that. 

Margaret.    I  told  him  on  the  morning  of  his  return, 

Mrs.  Lambert.  But  you  can't  really  care  about  that 
young  man,  my  dear,  I  daresay  he's  clever  enough, 
but  he  talks  with  such  an  extraordinary  twang!  I 
simply  can't  understand  it, 

Margaret,    No,  mother;  you  can't  understand  it.    It 


76  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

is  so  long  since  you  were  in  love  with  anyone  that  you 
have  forgotten.  (Pointing  to  Michael  J  But  he  under- 
stands it.  He  wants  to  complete  his  revenge  by  forcing 
me  to  marry  him. 

Michael.    I'll  have  you  yet! 

IMargaret.  Can't  you  see  that  if  he  really  cared  for 
me,  he  could  never  have  come  here  like  this,  or  written 
his  precious  letter?  Oh,  it  was  well  thought  out!  I 
suppose  he  calculated  that  I  should  be  so  nervous  of  my 
reputation  that  I  should  immediately  give  in.  Never! 
I  value  my  freedom  a  good  deal  more  than  my  good 
name. 

Michael  (in  a  frenzy  of  rage).  Pah!  Listen  to  her! 
Her  * '  freedom ' ' !  What  about  the  millions  of  men  whom 
you  and  the  Dean  and  your  mother,  and  all  the  people 
like  you,  have  sent  off  so  cheerfully  to  France?  Didn't 
they  value  their  freedom  ?  What  freedom  have  tJiey  had 
I  should  like  to  know,  in  the  past  four  years?  Have  I 
been  free?  Am  I  free  now?  Do  you  think  I  would  go 
back  into  heU  if  I  were  free?  .  .  .  Oh,  we  started  off 
all  right  because,  mugs  that  we  were,  we  thought  our 
women  were  worth  fighting  for,  worth  dying  for.  Do 
you  know  what  our  foolish  faith  in  women  like  you  has 
led  us  to  endure?  No — of  course  you  don't.  You 
wouldn't  know  if  you  were  told;  and  your  rotten  Gov- 
ernment takes  good  care  that  no  one  tries  to  tell  you.  .  .  . 
You  make  me  sick  all  you  civilians,  with  your  smug 
virtue,  and  your  cold,  selfish,  fishlike  hearts.  ...  As 
for  you,  Margaret,  what  have  you  got  to  offer  me  that 
thousands  of  girls  wouldn't  be  glad  to  have  a  chance  of 
giving?  Except  in  my  imagination,  there  never  was 
anything  desirable  about  you  but  your  sex.    But  you 


THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  77 

happened  to  be  the  girl  I  chose.  You  were  mine.  Be- 
fore the  war,  you  promised  yourself  to  me.  And  all 
through  the  months  that  I  have  been  stuck  in  that  cess- 
pool of  mud  and  blood  and  putrid  bodies  and  infernal 
noise,  I  had  nothing  but  the  thought  of  you  to  cling  on 
to.  .  .  .  And  when  at  last  I  got  leave,  all  the  accumu- 
lated longings  of  those  horrible  months  consumed  me.  I 
came  home — to  find  that  you  had  been  spending  your 
time  flirting  with  some  snivelling  Socialist!  Did  you 
expect  me  to  sit  down  under  that?  (Shouting.)  If  you 
send  your  men  abroad  to  live  like  wild  beasts,  to  be- 
have like  beasts  for  months  at  a  time,  what  complaint 
can  you  make  if  you  find  them  beasts  when  they  return  ? 
Now,  when  I  offer  you  all  I  have  to  offer — I  who  owe 
you  nothing, — you  prate  to  me  of  your  precious  "free- 
dom"! You  talk  to  me  of  a  Mr.  Oliver  Beeching! 
Where  is  the  dirty  skunk?  Why  don't  you  bring  him 
here  to  face  me?    Where  is  he?  .  .  . 

PHn.TP.  Oh,  steady  on,  old  fellow!  That's 
enough. 

Margaret  (speaking  loudly  and  excitedly).  He 
talks  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  possession — ^like  his  dog,  or  his 
cigarette-case  I  (To  Michael.  STie  is  quite  Jiysterical 
now.)  If  you  want  to  know,  Oliver  is  away  in  Glasgow. 
And  it's  a  lucky  thing  for  you  that  he  is. 

The  Dean.  Quietly,  now,  Margaret,  quietly.  You 
mustn't  lose  your  head.  You  and  I  will  go  away  into 
another  room  and  have  a  quiet  talk  together.  There 
now !    Come  along !  .  .  . 

Margaret.    Why  do  you  let  this  man  insult  me? 

Michael.    Insult  her ! 

Philip.    Oh,  shut  up^  Michael !    Come  away !  (drags 


78  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

Mm  hy  fhe  arm.)    Come  on;  you've  said  too  nraeh  al- 
ready. 

Michael  (sneering  at  Margaret  j.  So  you  told  him 
everything,  did  you?  Well,  I'm  sorry  for  you,  that's 
all  I  can  say  .  .  .  for  he  certainly  won't  marry  you 
now! 

('Margaret's  self-control  gives  way  completely.  She 
utters  a  cJioking  cry  of  rage,  darts  forward  and 
strikes  Michael,  in  the  face  with  her  open  hand. 
The  onlookers  show  signs  of  confusion  and  conster- 
nation.) 

Miss  Lambert,    Poor  dears! 

Mrs.  Lambert.    Margaret!  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Slaughter.     She's  demented.  .  .  . 

Philip.  Michael! — come  away  at  once.  (Seizes  his 
brother  firmly  in  his  arms.) 

The  Dean.  What  a  shocking  exhibition!  Deplor- 
able! 

Margaret  (her  effort  has  completely  exhausted  her, 
and  she  sinks  moaning  to  the  floor.  Her  aunt  stands 
over  her  in  an  attitude  of  protection).  Aunt  Eleanor 
.  .  .  Aunt  Eleanor! 

(Curtain.) 


ACT  IV 

The  scene  is  tJie  drawing-room  in  Miss  Lambert's  Tiotise 
in  CJieyne  Walk,  Chelsea.  The  two  tall  French 
windows  at  the  rear  of  the  stage  open  on  to  a 
verandah  overlooking  the  river.  The  door  is  on  the 
right.  Tlie  room  is  very  "beautifully  furnished,  hut 
what  first  strikes  the  eye  is  the  quantity  of  flowers 
which  stand  in  howls  and  vases.  Miss  Lambert  has 
a  passion  for  flowers;  they  form  her  principal  ex- 
travagance.  When  the  curtain  rises  Margaret 
is  sitting  in  an  armchair  turning  the  pages  of 
*' Vogue."  Miss  Lambert  is  reading  Hansard 
through  her  face-d-main. 

Margaret.  I  wonder  how  soon  he  will  come?  I  sup- 
pose he  may  be  here  at  any  moment  now.  Oh,  aunt,  I 
feel  so  nervous!  I  wish  I  could  imagine  how  he'd  take 
the  news. 

Miss  Lambert,    I  wish  you  could. 

Margaret.    I  suppose  he  will  be  mad  with  rage. 

Miss  Lambert  (with  a  harsh  laugh).  I'm  sure  you 
will  be,  if  he  isn  't. 

'"Margaret.  I  really  don't  know  how  I've  lived 
through  these  days.  I  feel  twenty  years  older  .  .  . 
sick,  tired.  I  don't  think  I've  any  hope  left.  Things 
that  seemed  lovely  once  now  make  me  shudder.  What 
I  looked  forward  to  as  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  life 
fills  me  now  only  with  horror  and  disgust.  I  feel  as  if 
I  should  never  be  clean  again. 

79 


80  THE   FIGHT   FOR   FREEDOM 

Miss  Lambert.  So  do  half  the  married  women  yon 
meet,  but  they  don't  obtrude  their  feelings  on  other 
people.  Pull  yourself  together,  child,  for  heaven 's  sake ! 
Most  of  the  tragedies  in  this  life  are  of  our  own  making. 
Do  try  to  overcome  this  morbid  sense  of  shame  .  .  . 
there's  nothing  virtuous  in  it.  .  .  .  Shame  is  only  a 
combination  of  vanity  with  moral  cowardice.  A  mis- 
fortune is  a  test  of  character.  Don't  bow  your  pretty 
head  like  this.    Look  the  world  in  the  face ! 

Margaret  (rising  from  Tier  chair).  Oh,  I'm  not 
going  to  bow  my  head  .  .  .  only  .  .  .  only  when  I  think 
of  Oliver  my  courage  seems  to  desert  me.  I  don't  know 
how  I  shall  look  Mm  in  the  face.  I  have  been  robbed  of 
what  was  his  alone. 

Miss  Lambert.  Margaret,  you  enrage  me.  You  are 
talking  like  a  slave-woman.  So  long  as  you  feel  like 
that  you  will  walk  straight  into  all  the  foolish  snares 
which  the  world  has  been  setting  for  women  for  the 
past  ten  thousand  years.  Where  has  all  your  precious 
love  of  freedom  got  to,  I  wonder?  Shake  yourself! 
Freedom  is  a  wonderful  ideal.  The  pity  is  that  those 
who  talk  about  it  most  ecstatically  are  usually  those 
who  understand  it  least.  It  is  better  to  be  free  even 
than  to  be  loved  .  .  .  far  better  to  be  free  than  to  be 
hedged  in  by  other  people's  respect.  After  all,  only  if 
you  are  free — the  captain  of  your  own  soul,  impervious 
to  anything  that  other  people  can  possibly  do  to  you — 
can  you  really  understand  what  love  means.  And  when 
you  have  grasped  that,  point  you  will  look  round  you 
and  see  the  half  of  humanity  in  chains  of  its  own 
making — hugging  and  idealising  those  chains!  Nations 
and  individuals,  we  choose  deliberately  to  be  blind  rather 


THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  81 

than  to  use  our  eyes,  to  be  slaves  rather  than  free,  to 
obey  anyone  who  will  consent  to  say  to  us  "  do  this, "  "  do 
that,"  rather  than  take  the  trouble  to  listen  and  follow 
the  directions  of  our  own  Daimon.  The  chances  of 
happiness  in  this  world  which  we  throw  away!  The 
horrors  of  hell  will  lie  in  the  belated  realisation  of 
them! 

Margaret.    I  never  knew  you  were  religious,  aunt. 

Miss  Lambert.  Then  you  must  have  thought  me  a 
fool,  my  dear.  Only  fools  are  irreligious.  It  is  a  pity 
that  folly  is  such  an  aid  to  ecclesiastical  preferment ;  but 
I  suppose  that  can't  be  helped  in  the  present  age  of 
materialism ! 

Margaret  (primly).  It  seems  to  me  rather  irreligious 
to  make  light  of  what  has  happened. 

Miss  Lambert.  True  religion  would  enable  you  to 
make  light  of  it.  .  .  .  If  your  mind  and  soul  are  un- 
touched the  rest  is  unimportant.  Do  you  know,  you 
disappoint  me,  Margaret,  You  have  learned  very  little 
from  Oliver.  You  repeat  his  words  glibly  enough.  But 
I  doubt  very  much  if  you  understand  what  they  mean. 
Sometimes  I  think  you  are  as  much  the  slave  of  con- 
ventional thought  as  the  people  whom  you  deride.  You 
are  always  talking  about  the  social  revolution ;  but  what 
good  will  that,  or  any  other  revolution,  do  you,  if  you 
can't  free  yourself  first?  Half  the  civilised  world  has 
allowed  itself  to  be  ensla'«"'d  in  the  vilest  form  of  servi- 
tude, in  order  effectively  to  slaughter  the  other  half, 
which  is  equally  abject,  in  the  sacred  name  of  freedom. 
Nearly  every  man  and  woman  at  the  present  day  thinks 
that  he  or  she  is  taking  part  in  a  struggle  for  freedom ! 
But  how  many  of  them  really  are  doing  so?    Open  yov  ■ 


82  THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

inner  eyes,  Margaret!  Nothing  else  matters.  I*m  an 
old  woman,  my  dear,  but  I  am  not  tired.  I  wait  for  the 
Dawn.    I  pray  that  I  shall  live  to  see  it. 

Margaret.  Aunt  Eleanor,  you  know  that  I  long  for 
it,  too. 

Miss  Lambert.  Yes,  you  think  yon  do.  But  what  I 
am  afraid  of  is  that  when  it  comes  at  last — after  this 
black  night  of  horror — its  rays  will  blind  you  and  bum 
you,  and  you  will  shrink  from  it  in  fear  and  trembling. 
I  often  wonder  whether  you  and  Oliver  really  under- 
stand each  other's  natures.  The  Dawn  will  have  no 
terrors  for  Mm. 

Margaret.  Aunt  Eleanor,  how  can  you  say  that!  T 
love  Oliver  with  my  whole  heart.  I  understand  him 
enough  for  that,  at  all  events.  I  do  think  you  are  being 
unkind.  .  .  . 

Miss  Lambert.  Ah,  I'm  an  old  witch.  I  feel  like 
leaping  on  to  my  broomstick  at  any  moment.  Don't  I 
look  like  a  witch?  fMiss  Lambert  suddenly  puts  down 
Tier  Hansard  and  glares  at  Margaret.  J 

Margaret.  "Well,  you  do  rather.  Aunt  Eleanor,  if 
you  '11  forgive  me  for  saying  so.  But  what  is  there  about 
the  changes  we  both  long  for  which  I  sha'n't  welcome 
and  Oliver  will? 

Miss  Lambert.  You  haven't  yet  got  over  your  up- 
bringing, Margaret.  Sometimes  I  think  you  never  wiU 
get  over  it.  The  cotton-wool  with  which  our  class  wraps 
up  its  young  women  is  terribly  clinging  stuff  ...  it 
clings  and  clogs  and  muffles. 

Margaret  (goes  and  sits  on  the  floor  at  Tier  aunt's 
feet).  Aunt,  tell  me,  talk  to  me ;  I  want  to  know.  I  do 
really. 


THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  83 

Miss  Lambert.  Mind,  I  warned  you  I  was  an  old 
witch. 

Margabet.    a  beloved  old  witch. 

Miss  Lambert.  A  spiteful  old  witch,  with  claws. 
Sometimes  you  make  me  want  to  stick  them  into  you, 
Margaret.  Misfortune  and  unhappiness  rouse  my  worst 
passions.  When  I  see  you  weeping  over  what  has  hap- 
pened to  you  I  could  laugh  in  your  face — a  harsh  cackle 
that  would  make  you  writhe.  When  the  Dawn  breaks 
you  will  shrink  as  you  are  shrinking  now.  Be  warned 
in  time.  Oliver  will  not  shrink.  He  and  I,  the  old 
woman  and  the  young  man,  we  are  brother  and  sister, 
mated  lovers.    The  future  is  ours. 

Margaret.  Aunt  Eleanor!  What  do  you  mean  ?.,  . 
What  are  you  talking  about?  .  .  .  What  is 
this  "Dawn"?  ...  I  am  beginning  to  hate  it  al- 
ready. .   .   . 

Miss  Lambert.  And  perhaps  you  are  right  to  hate 
it.  I  hope  not,  but  sometimes  when  I  look  at  you  I  am 
afraid.  As  for  me,  I  live  for  it,  my  whole  soul  longs 
for  it.  And  it  is  so  murky  now,  so  black  a  night  of 
suffering  and  terror,  that  one  knows  it  must  be  at  hand. 
One  knows  that — oh !  ever  so  soon — ^the  Dawn  will  come 
rising  in  its  red  splendour  over  this  shattered  and  deso- 
late world.  And  how  its  rays  will  scorch  and  stupefy 
all  those  who  cling  unconsciously  to  the  past!  For  the 
great  bulk  of  English  people,  the  Dawn  may  be  far  more 
terrible  even  than  the  present  gloom.  What  will  they 
not  have  to  swallow!  All  the  things  which  they  have 
lived  for  will  be  snatched  for  ever  from  their  grasp.  All 
their  favourite  lies  will  be  exposed,  their  dear  dishon- 
esties!    Ah!  it  will  be  a  bitter  gospel  for  many,  the 


84  THE   FIGHT   FOE   FREEDOM 

gospel  of  the  Dawn  .  .  .  and  I  fear  lest  it  may  be  bitter 
for  you,  my  poor  little  grey  dove.  But  when  the  day 
comes,  I  shall  die  happy.  Oh,  I  am  filled  with  longing 
for  it!  The  thought  of  it  gives  me  strength  to  fight, 
strength  to  live.  Sometimes  I  seem  to  hear,  far  away 
and  faint,  a  lovely  music  .  .  .  the  singing  of  strange, 
bitter,  exquisite  voices — heralds  of  destruction  and  of 
new  birth!  (SJie  looks  straight  ahead  for  a  long  while 
in  silence.  Then  she  loojcs  down  at  Margaret  and 
laughs.) 

'^Margaret.    Dear  Aunt  Eleanor,  you  talk  as  if  you 
were  inspired. 

Miss  Lambert  (sharply).  Or  demented?  Ha!  but 
don't  forget  that  the  ravings  of  to-day  are  the  common 
sense  of  to-morrow. 

Margaret.  It's  all  very  well,  though,  to  talk  about 
the  coming  of  the  Dawn  and  all  that,  but  it  does  seem  to 
me  that  if  we  want  to  achieve  anything  we  shall  have 
to  be  a  little  more  constructive  .  .  .  evolve  some  definite 
programme. 

Miss  Lambert.  There,  my  dear!  It  was  too  bad  to 
inflict  on  you  such  a  tirade,  particularly  when  all  the 
while  you  naturally  wanted  to  hug  your  own  unhappi- 
ness.  I  am  sure  you  feel  that  the  ' '  heralds  of  the  Dawn ' ' 
ought  to  organise  themselves  sensibly  .  .  .  elect  a  presi- 
dent, a  number  of  vice-presidents  and  patrons,  and  a 
small  working  committee.  But  do  the  great  storms  have 
small  working  committees?  Has  the  earthquake  evolved 
his  programme?  Is  the  volcano  reasonable?  And  do 
you  suppose  that  God  Himself  is  really  organised  on  a 
sound  liberal  basis?  My  poor  child,  what  agonies  are  in 
store  for  you  I 


THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  85 

Margaret.     You  aren't  very  comforting,  I  must  say. 

Miss  Lambert.  No,  but  I'm  irritating.  You  are 
twice  the  girl  you  were  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago.  Com- 
fort is  lowering  to  the  system.  There's  no  tonic  like 
annoyance.  If  I  had  a  child  I  should  always  slap  it 
severely  when  it  was  sorry  for  itself. 

Margaret.  "Well,  you've  given  me  some  nasty  knocks 
this  afternoon.  And  I  suppose  Oliver,  when  he  comes, 
will  give  me  a  few  more,  particularly  as  you  say  I  don't 
understand  him.  I  suppose  you  are  right.  He  does 
frighten  me  sometimes,  I  confess.  But  oh,  aunt,  if  he 
fails  me  now  I  shall  die.  I  can't,  I  can't  bear  it.  It's 
too  much.  At  least  Oliver  is  my  friend.  I've  no  one 
else  to  cling  to  except  you  and  he. 

Miss  Lambert.  Then  give  up  clinging:  clinging 
women  are  detestable — and  out-of-date.  ...  I  have  been 
young,  Margaret,  and  now  I  am  old.  I  have  worked 
through  more  sorrows  and  disappointments  than  you 
have,  and  I  tell  you  this  .  .  .  the  only  thing  that  really 
matters  is  not  to  fail  yourself.  If  you  have  nothing 
inside  yourself  to  hold  you  up,  sooner  or  later  you  will 
fall  flat. 

Margaret.  It's  all  very  well  to  say  that  .  .  .  but  it 
isn't  even  irritating,  Aunt  Eleanor.  It  just  makes  me 
feel  wretcheder  than  ever. 

Miss  Lambert.  Nonsense,  child,  don't  be  so  silly. 
What  did  you  tell  Oliver,  by  the  way? 

Margaret.  I  told  him  everything  .  .  .  exactly  what 
happened.  I  had  to  tell  him.  I  owed  him  that.  At 
least  he  has  taught  me  to  be  honest  with  myself — ^and 
with  him. 

Miss  Lambert.    WeU,  that's  a  good  job,  at  all  events^ 


86  THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

(A  ring  is  Jieard.)  Hullo !  Here  he  is.  I'd  better  leave 
you  together. 

Maid.    Mr.  Philip  Henderson! 

Miss  Lambert.  Good  gracious,  Philip,  what  an 
anti-climax!  We  were  expecting  someone  really  in- 
teresting ! 

Philip  Henderson.  May  I  come  in  and  talk  to  Mar- 
garet, Miss  Lambert? 

Miss  Lambert.    Absurd  creature  .  .  . 

Margaret.  Of  course  you  may,  Philip,  if  you  promise 
to  go  as  soon  as  you  are  sent. 

Philip  Henderson.  My  dear  girl,  you  don't  think 
I  'd  force  my  company  on  you,  surely  ? 

Miss  Lambert.  Listen  to  the  man!  I  really  can't 
have  you  bursting  into  floods  of  tears,  Philip,  all  over 
the  drawing-room  carpet.  Ring  for  a  whisky-and-soda, 
Margaret,  if  he  begins  to  give  way.  (Exit.) 

Philip  (sinking  into  a  chair).  Michael's  gone,  thank 
goodness !  .  .  .  went  off  the  night  before  last ! 

Margaret  (vnth,  relief).     Oh ! 

Philip.  It  seems  like  a  nightmare,  Margaret.  I've 
never  known  anything  so  awful  in  the  whole  of  my  life. 
Do  you  know,  during  the  last  two  days  of  his  leave  he 
was  drunk  the  whole  time. 

Margaret.    Ugh !    How  loathsome ! 

Philip.  You  do  sympathise  with  me,  don't  you?  My 
nerves! 

Margaret.  I  do,  Philip.  But  just  then  I  was  think- 
ing of  myself,  oddly  enough.  Three  days  ago  you  wanted 
me  to  forgive  him  and  marry  him ! 

Philip.  Don't  remind  me  of  it,  Margaret,  please!  I 
tried  to  do  the  decent  thing  by  both  of  you.    I  've  been 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  87 

regretting  it  ever  since,  ...  Do  you  know,  I  believe  "he 
was  half  mad — that's  my  theory — half  mad.  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it  possible.  Fancy  such  a  thing  happen- 
ing, and  in  my  own  flat!  It  has  completely  shattered 
me.  ... 

Margaret  (UgJitly  to  relieve  Philip's  distress). 
People  don't  go  mad  in  Government  offices,  do  tbey? 
But  when  they  are  very,  very  middle-aged  and  rather 
high  up,  their  brains  begin  to  fail.  The  result  of  hard 
work,  I  suppose? 

Philip.  Margaret,  don't  laugh  at  me.  I  feel  this 
very  much.    I  don 't  know  when  I  've  been  so  upset. 

Margaret.  As  if  I  should  laugh  at  you  .  .  .  when 
you're  so  very  busy  running  the  war  for  us!  Why,  it 
would  be  shamefully  unpatriotic.  I  leave  that  kind  of 
hilarity  to  the  Huns,  Philip,  I  assure  you. 

Phiup.    Why  to  the  Huns  ? 

Margaret.  Well,  you  see,  you  are  such  a  much  better 
joke  to  them. 

Philh'.  It's  all  very  well  to  jeer  at  me,  Margaret,  but 
I  've  heard  privately  from  my  chief  that  I  'm  going  to  be 
made  a  K.B.E. 

Margaret.    My  God! 

Philip.  That's  really  what  I  want  to  tell  yon  .  .  . 
only  you  don't  help  a  fellow.  .  .  .  You  see,  it's  like  this. 
Now  that  Michael's  gone  and  muffed  his  chance,  and 
you've  refused  him  and  all  that  .  .  .  well,  there  isn't 
anything  actually  disgraceful  about  being  a  K.B.E., 
Margaret.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  Oh,  Lord,  this  is 
awful! 

Margaret.  My  dear  boy,  I  congratulate  you  most 
heartily !    You  look  the  part  to  perfection.    I  can  imag- 


88  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

ine  nothing  more  becoming.  Where  will  you  wear  it. 
In  your  button-hole  or  round  your  neck? 

Philip.  You  see,  my  idea  was  that  as  you've  a  very 
natural  prejudice  against  the  Army  you  might  give  the 
Civil  Service  a  chance.  Now,  don't  you  think  you  might, 
Margaret?  I  know  you  must  hate  the  very  name  of 
Henderson  .  .  .  but  it's  a  frightfully  common  name  .  .  . 
there  are  heaps  and  heaps  of  Hendersons.  You  could 
really  never  be  sure  you  mightn't  marry  some  Hender- 
son some  time  or  other.  So  what  I  thought  was,  you  see, 
that  as  we've  always  got  on  rather  well.  .  .  . 

Margaret.  Oh,  you  dear  old  silly!  You  want  to 
marry  me !  Oh,  Philip !  (She  is  deeply  touched.  Her 
eyes  fill  with  tears  and  her  voice  trembles. )  You  always 
were  the  funniest  old  thing! 

Philip.  I'm  afraid  that  doesn't  sound  awfully  hope- 
ful somehow.  You  see,  the  fact  is — I  suppose  I  ought 
to  have  started  with  this  ...  I  do  usually  .  .  .  only 
this  time  I  wanted  it  to  come  off  so  much  that  I  lost  my 
nerve  and  began  all  wrong.  You  see  .  .  .  Margaret  .  .  . 
I  simply  love  you  desperately  .  .  .  desperately.  I  can't 
help  it.  It  is  a  habit  of  years'  standing.  After  all,  I 
knew  you  first,  didn't  I  now? 

Margaret.  You  did,  my  dear;  and  I'm  very  grateful 
to  you.    You  couldn't  have  done  a  kinder  thing.  .  .  . 

Philip.  Kind!  Good  heavens  ...  it  was  horribly 
selfish.  You  know  I  am  a  bit  selfish,  Margaret  ...  I 
must  admit  that. 

Margaret.  I'm  afraid  it's  no  use,  Philip.  You  see, 
apart  from  other  considerations,  there's  someone  else 
.  .  .  and  he  may  arrive  here  at  any  moment.  In  fact, 
I've  been  expecting  him  for  the  past  ten  minutes. 


THE   FIGHT  FOR  FEEEDOM  89 

Philip.  I  seem  to  reduce  blundering,  where  you  are 
concerned,  to  a  fine  art!  My  dear,  I  do  hope  you  will 
be  happy.  Be  serious  for  once  and  know  that  I  mean 
it  with  all  my  heart. 

Margaret.  I  do  realise  it,  Philip,  and  I*m  ever  so 
grateful. 

Maid.    Mr.  Beeching! 

(OuYER  Beeching  enters  the  room  briskly.  He  looks 
well  and  cheerful.  After  greeting  Margaret,  ^ 
shakes  hands  cordially  with  Philip  Henderson.^ 

Oliver.  Well,  Margaret!  (To  Philip.^  How  d'you 
do,  sir? 

Philip.  Margaret,  I  must  go.  I've  stayed  much  too 
long. 

Margaret.  Good-bye,  dear  Philip.  (With  the  ap- 
pearance of  Oliver  her  manner  has  changed  suddenly. 
She  looks  white,  nervous,  a  tragic  figure.  When  Ihe 
door  closes  on  Philip  she  turns  and  faces  Oliver  with 
distraught  eyes.)    Oliver.  .  .  . 

Oliver  (seizing  her  hy  the  hands  and  kissing  her). 
Margaret,  my  darling,  I  hurried  back  as  soon  as  I  could. 
Here  I  am. 

Margaret.     You  got  my  letter,  Oliver? 

Oliver.  I  did.  You  poor  little  thing!  It  was  hor- 
rible, a  wretched  piece  of  bad  luck.  But  you  mustn't  let 
yourself  get  into  a  morbid  condition  about  it.  Try  to 
put  it  aU  out  of  your  mind  for  ever ! 

Margaret.  I  can  never  put  it  out  of  my  mind.  That 
loathsome  man  has  ruined  my  whole  life.  Oh,  it  makes 
my  blood  boil  when  I  think  of  it.    And  that  was  the  man 


90  THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

whom  my  relatives,  except  Aunt  Eleanor,  tried  to  force 
me  to  marry,  knowing  what  they  did.  .  .  . 

Oliver.  My  God,  I  think  the  sentimental  idiocy  of 
middle-class  English  people  is  one  of  the  greatest 
problems  mankind  has  to  grapple  with!  And  it  can't 
be  grappled  with:  it  has  a  thousand  heads.  Being  a 
sensible  girl,  of  course  you  refused.  .  .  .  And  I  suppose 
you  gave  those  concerned  a  piece  of  your  mind.  I  should 
have  done  so  in  your  place,  anyhow. 

Margaret.  I — ^believe  I  struck  him  in  the  face  .  .  . 
the  coward!  Oh,  it  is  awful  to  hate  anyone  as  I  hate 
that  man ! 

Oliver  (surprised).  Who,  that  poor  devil.  Captain 
Henderson?  Whatever  is  the  use  of  hating  Mmf  He's 
an  object  of  pity,  if  ever  there  was  one! 

Margaret,  Oliver,  how  can  you  say  that!  He  is 
black  and  cowardly  to  the  very  depths  of  his  soul.  Pity 
him  indeed!  That's  what  they  all  said.  That's  why 
they  wanted  me  to  marry  him.  Mrs.  Slaughter  kept 
impressing  on  me  the  necessity  of  cultivating  Christian 
charity!  Oh,  you  can't  any  of  you  realise  what  I've 
been  through,  or  you  wouldn't  talk  like  this! 

Oliver.  My  dear  girl,  I  realise  perfectly.  The  very 
thought  of  it  is  an  agony.  I  know  what  you  are  suffer- 
ing now.  All  the  same,  I'm  on  Mrs.  Slaughter's  side 
about  the  charity. 

Margaret.  Oliver  .  .  .  are  you  going  to  turn 
against  me  and  preach  at  me?  Oh,  I  can't  bear  it! 
This  is  too  much ! 

Oliver.  Oh,  don't  be  absurd,  Margaret!  Do  pull 
yourself  together  a  bit.  Of  course  the  suggestion  that 
you  should  marry  the  poor  devil  was  simply  monstrous. 


THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  91 

But  I  do  think  you  ought  to  try  to  make  allowances 
for  him. 

Margaret  (deeply  Jiurt).  You  talk  like  all  the  others. 
That  is  what  they  all  said  to  me. 

Oliver.  It  is  annoying  when  tiresome  people  talk 
sense,  but  that  doesn  't  make  it  nonsense,  you  know.  The 
worst  of  this  wretched  war  is  that  it  seems  to  have  de- 
stroyed everyone's  sense  of  proportion.  We  are  all  ex- 
tremists. Up  to  a  point,  the  people  who  condone  every- 
thing done  by  "our  brave  lads"  are  quite  right, 

Margaret.    Like  Mrs.  Slaughter? 

Oliver.  Yes,  certainly.  The  poor  devils  of  soldiers 
suffer  so  horribly  that  they  are  really  not  responsible. 
Human  nature  can't  stand  what  they  are  called  on  to 
go  through.  There  must  be  a  reaction.  The  strain  is 
unendurable.  In  normal  circumstances  this  Henderson 
would  probably  be  quite  a  decent  sort  of  fellow,  in- 
capable of  the  grotesque  blackguardism  of  which  you 
were  the  victim.  Surely  you  must  see  that?  Ten  to 
one  he  was  completely  out  of  his  head.  The  only  thing 
to  do  with  the  poor  dears  is  to  put  them  in  homes  for 
shell-shock  and  try  to  restore  them  to  sanity. 

Margaret  (fierce  with  anger  and  disappointment ). 
So  you  can  call  Michael  Henderson  a  "poor  dear"!  I 
think  he  ought  to  be  in  prison. 

Oliver.  Pooh!  that's  nonsense.  Punishment  for  the 
crimes  of  soldiers,  even  for  "atrocities,"  ought  to  be 
visited  not  on  the  tortured  devils  who  actually  commit 
them,  but  on  the  heads  of  those  who  made  the  war,  on 
those  who  have  prolonged  the  world's  torment  for  two 
extra  years  by  rejecting  peace.  Those  are  the  real  crim- 
inals.   If  a  soldier  commits  a  crime,  the  proper  thing 


92  THE   FIGHT  FOR   FREEDOM 

to  do  is  to  hang  a  few  journalists — "propaganda"  mer- 
chants for  choice.  The  men  who  have  so  cheerfully 
"given"  their  sons,  while  doubling  and  trebling  their 
own  incomes ;  the  writers  who  have  filled  their  fountain 
pens  with  blood  because  it  paid  them — they  are  the  vil- 
lains, Margaret.  Keep  your  hate  for  them.  Punish 
every  man  who  has  made  a  penny  out  of  this  war ;  im- 
prison and  flog  every  scribbler  who  has  fanned  the  flames 
of  hatred.  Don't  punish  the  poor  wretches  who  have 
lost  all,  even  reason  and  human  decency. 

IVIargaret.  You  are  an  extraordinary  person.  .  .  . 
Which  side  are  you  on — the  side  of  the  Junkers,  or 
the  side  of  Democracy  ? 

Oliver.  I  am  on  the  side  of  humanity,  Margaret. 
And  a  very  unpopular  side  it  is  just  at  present.  I  am 
on  the  side  of  those  who  suffer.  My  enemies  are  those 
who  inflict  suffering  and  become  rich  in  the  process.  Oh, 
it's  so  simple,  and  so  heart-breaking. 

Margaret.    Why  ? 

Oliver.  Well,  because  it  makes  one  love  one's 
enemies  just  as  much  as  one's  friends.  Very  often  all 
my  sympathies  are  with  the  soldiers  who  throw  rotten 
eggs  or  stones  at  me,  when  they  are  home  on  leave,  be- 
cause some  journalist  on  the  hunt  for  popularity  has 
told  them  I  am  a  "traitor."  Very  often  I  loathe  and 
detest  my  own  associates  in  the  Labour  party  who  are 
willing  to  let  their  sons  and  brothers  go  on  being  tor- 
tured, provided  they  themselves  get  an  increase  of  wages. 
Do  you  think  the  Labour  party 's  memorandum  on  ' '  War 
Aims"  makes  me  respect  them?  Why,  I  could  spit  in 
their  stupid,  sheep-like  faces!  They  are  worse  than  the 
other  side,  because,  in  a  way,  they  understand.    They  sin 


THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  93 

against  the  Light.  They  pass  resolutions  to  salve  their 
consciences;  but  the  hope  of  a  rise  in  wages  is  the  only 
thing  that  ever  makes  them  act. 

Margaret.     I  think  you  are  very  inconsistent. 

Oliver.  Yes,  I  suppose  you  do.  One  has  to  be  either 
inconsistent  or  dishonest  nowadays.  (Sighing.)  But 
aren't  we  all  just  groping  in  the  dark  anyway? 

Margaret.  There  it  is  again!  I'm  sick  to  death  of 
all  this  "dark  night"  business,  and  the  "coming  of  the 
Dawn."  Aunt  Eleanor  has  been  going  on  about  it  all 
the  afternoon.  She  tells  me  that  you  and  she  will  wel- 
come "the  Dawn,"  and  that  I  shall  loathe  it  because 
I  've  had  a  middle-class  upbringing.  Is  it  my  fault  what 
sort  of  upbringing  I've  had?  You  say  you  are  on  the 
side  of  humanity.  You  aren't.  You  think  of  nothing 
but  your  wretched  theories.  The  people  who  don't  hap- 
pen to  fit  in  with  them  may  go  to  the  wall  for  all  you 
care.  You  are  utterly  selfish.  You  have  failed  me, 
Oliver — ^when  I  needed  you  most.  Oh,  I  wish  I  was 
dead! 

Oliver  (looking  at  Margaret  in  surprise).  "Well,  Tm 
blessed !  This  is  a  revelation.  How  long  have  you  been 
storing  all  this  up  in  your  queer  little  head  1 

Margaret.  That's  right.  Patronise  me,  Just  as  Aunt 
Eleanor  does.  I  haven't  any  brain.  I'm  only  a  fool  to 
be  spoken  to  like  a  child,  or  talked  down  to.  I'm  a 
"middle-class  Englishwoman,"  and  you  and  Aunt  Elea- 
nor belong  to  "the  future."  The  future!  What  sort  of 
a  future  is  it,  I  should  like  to  know,  that  you  are  always 
bragging  about  and  looking  forward  to? 

Oliver.  Well,  not  the  day  when  the  middle-class  Eng- 
lishman shall  possess  the  earth — ^I'm  afraid.    But  why 


94  THE   FIGHT   FOR  FREEDOM 

so  much  heat,  Margaret?  I  thought  we  were  good 
friends,  but  I  'm  hanged  if  I  understand  you. 

Margaret.  No,  of  course  you  can 't.  We  don 't  speak- 
the  same  language.  I  know  it  now.  I  was  a  blind  fool 
ever  to  believe  in  you,  ever  to  rely  on  you.  .  .  .  But  I 
know  better  now.  I  shall  make  my  own  fight  for  freedom 
— freedom  to  be  myself. 

Oliver  (acidly).  Well,  if  you  feel  like  that,  my  dear, 
at  least  you  can  congratulate  yourself  on  having  recov- 
ered in  time, 

Margaret.    I  do. 

Oliver  (with  more  emotion  fhan  lie  shows).  I  don't 
pretend  to  be  a  sentimentalist,  Margaret.  But  this  is  a 
knock-out  blow.  You  don't  care  for  me  any  longer, 
then?    Because  I  refuse  to  consider  a  calamity  a  crime? 

Margaret.  Care!  What  do  you  know  about  caring? 
All  you  want  is  a  female  echo  of  your  own  opinions. 
I  may  have  been  brought  up  in  cotton-wool,  as  Aunt 
Eleanor  says,  but,  at  least,  I'm  not  a  slave.  Aunt 
Eleanor  has  just  told  me  how  much  better  it  is  to  be 
free  than  to  be  loved.    WeU,  I'm  going  to  be  free. 

Oliver  (insufferably.)  I  wonder.  (Shrugs  his  shoul- 
ders.) 

(There  is  a  ring  and  the  sound  of  voices  outside  the 
room.  They  hreak  off  an  altercation  now  begin- 
ning to  grow  heated  (particularly  on  Margaret's 
side),  and  stare  at  tJie  door.  It  opens  and  Mrs. 
Slaughter,  followed  by  Mrs.  Lambert  and  Philip, 
burst  into  the  room.) 

Mrs.  Slaughter.    My  dear  child! 


THE   FIGHT  FOR   FREEDOM  95 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Oh,  Margaret,  where  is  your  Aunt 
Eleanor  ? 

Philip.     I  knew  it  all  the  time! 

(Enter  Miss  Lambert.  J 

Miss  Lambert  (coldly,  to  Mrs.  Slaughter^.  How  do 
you  do?  (To  Mrs.  Lambert.^  "Well,  Mary!  (To  Philip.^ 
Back  again?  And  what  did  you  know  **aU  the  time" 
pray? 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Eleanor,  we  had  to  come  round  to 
tell  poor  Margaret  the  news.  Philip  has  just  had  a 
telegram.  Michael  is  completely  insane.  They  are  send- 
ing him  home  to  an  asylum.  It's  too  terrible.  ...  I 
really  don't  know  what  we  ought  to  do.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  do 
wish  the  Dean  were  here  to  advise  us! 

Miss  Lambert.  H  'm !  I  thought  his  advice  was  im- 
mediate matrimony? 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (TmugJitily ).  At  least  you  will 
admit,  Eleanor,  that  Samuel  and  I  were  right  when 
you  were  all  wrong.  We  kneiv  Michael  could  not  have 
acted  as  he  did  if  he  were  in  his  sober  senses.  We  be- 
lieved in  the  poor  fellow  even  when  things  looked  black- 
est against  him.  I  shall  always  remember  with  thank- 
fulness that  we  stood  by  him.  We  stuck  to  him  through 
thick  and  thin. 

Miss  Lambert.  At  Margaret's  expense,  of  course. 
But  you  forget  I  told  you  myself  that  Michael  was 
probably  a  madman ! 

Mrs.  Slaughter  (triumphantly).  Michael's  charac- 
ter is  cleared. 

Margaret  (faintly).    Philip,  let  me  see  the  telegram. 


96  THE   FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM 

CPhilip  goes  across  to  Margaret.  Miss  Lambert  looks 
from  lier  to  Oliver,  and  draws  Tier  own  con- 
clusioTis.) 

^Iiss  Lambert,  Well,  Oliver,  what  do  you  think  about 
it  all? 

Oliver.  I  'm  bound  to  say  that  I  was  on  Mrs.  Slaugh- 
ter's  side  about  Captain  Henderson.  I  felt  one  had  to 
stick  up  for  the  poor  wretch.  But,  of  course,  the  mar- 
riage idea  was  utterly'  grotesque. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  It  was  all  your  fault,  Mr.  Beeching, 
But  for  you,  the  poor  boy  might  never  have  lost  his 
reason.  You  can  keep  your  sympathy.  I  don't  want 
your  precious  support ! 

Oliver  (mildly).  You  know,  I  can't  help  thinking 
this  blasted  war  had  something  to  do  with  it  all!  But 
then  I  'm  a  crank.  I  don 't  approve  of  war  as  a  sporting 
pastime  for  the  youngsters — never  did. 

(Everyone  except  Miss  Lambert  regards  Oliver  ivith 
coldness.  Philip  and  Margaret  Jiave  noticeably 
drawn  away  from  Mm.) 

Margaret.  Take  me  away,  Philip.  ...  I  can't  bear 
any  more.  You  at  least  have  behaved  decently  all 
through.    I  can  rely  on  you. 

Philip.  My  dear  girl,  I  only  wish  you  would.  You 
must  be  tired  out.  We'll  go  away  and  have  some  tea. 
You'll  excuse  us.  Miss  Lambert? 

Miss  Lambert  (cTiuckling).    By  all  means. 

(A  certain  constraint  falls  on  the  company  after  tJieir 
departure.) 


THE  FIGHT  FOR  FREEDOM  97 

Mrs.  Lambert  (apologetically).  I  thought  it  only 
right  to  come  and  tell  the  poor  darling  at  once,  Eleanor. 

Mrs.  Slaughter.  We  owed  it  to  Michael's  memory. 
.  .  .  Well,  I  suppose  they've  gone  now,  and  I  daresay  we 
had  better  be  going  too,  Mary.  Philip  will  be  such  a 
comfort  to  the  dear  child.  After  all,  he's  the  oldest 
friend  she  has.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Lambert.  Yes,  we'd  better  go  now.  Oh,  dear. 
Oh,  dear,  how  terribly  sad  everything  all  is.  (Taking 
Oliver's  liand  ratlier  charmingly  and  calling  Mm,  for 
the  first  time,  hy  his  Christian  name.)  Good-bye,  Oliver. 
I  do  wish  everything  weren't  so  terribly  sad  .  .  .  and 
so  difficult  to  understand.  But  I^m  sure  it's  all  for  the 
best  .  .  .  somehow.  (To  Miss  Lambert.^  Good-bye, 
Eleanor,  dear. 

fMiss  Laimbert  and  Mrs.  Slaughter  shake  hands  coldly. 
The  door  closes  behind  them.  Miss  Lambert  sinks 
into  a  chair  by  Oliver's  side  and  looks  up  at  Mm 
quizzically. ) 

Miss  Lambert.  So  the  silly  child  proposes  to  jilt  you, 
because  you  refused  to  flatter  her  egoism  by  regarding 
her  as  a  "fallen"  woman!  Well,  she'll  be  happier  with 
Philip  than  she  ever  would  have  been  with  you.  I  can't 
pretend  I'm  sorry — except  perhaps  for  her. 

Oliver.  Well,  you  needn't  be  so  beastly  inhuman 
about  it! 

Miss  Lambert.  Not  inhuman — ^immoral:  the  exact 
opposite. 

Oliver.     Why  immoral? 

Miss  Lambert.    Because  I  take  a  common-sense  view 


98  THE   FIGHT  FOR   FREEDOM 

of  sex  attraction  instead  of  a  moral  and  sentimental  one. 
Boys  of  your  age  always  want  to  marry  their  mistresses. 
It's  such  a  mistake. 

Oliver.    Good  heavens,  she  wasn't  my  mistress! 

Miss  Lambert.  No,  but  she  would  have  been  if  yon 
had  married  her. 

Oliver.  You  seem  quite  certain  that  she's  thrown 
me  over.    I'm  not. 

Miss  Lambert.  You  soon  will  be  then.  I  know  Mar- 
garet very  well.  Now  that  the  test  has  come  her  courage 
will  fail  her.  She  will  never  be  able  to  cross  the  Rubicon 
with  you — to  welcome,  with  you,  the  new  world  which 
will  be  built  on  the  ruins  of  the  old.  It's  no  good,  Oliver. 
"We're  left  alone  together,  you  and  I — ^the  old  woman 
and  the  young  man.  Ah!  we  shall  see  the  Dawn  break 
yet.    "We  shall  live  to  see  the  Revolution. 

Oliver.  You  best  of  comrades!  What  else  really 
matters?    (Laughing  and  singing:) 

Then  raise  the  scarlet  standard  high, 
Within  its  shade  we'll  live  or  die ! 

Miss  Lambert  (taking  flie  song  up.    Both  together:) 

Though  cowards  flinch  and  traitors  sneer, 
We'll  keep  the  Red  Flag  flying  here. 

(They  clasp  one  another's  hands.) 
(Curtain.) 


lHJffi  JbliiiiAilx 
BHTVliiRSriT  OF  CALIFOBNM 

um  AMGKuea 


S      R     L     F 
SEE  SPINE  FOR  BARCODE  NUMBER 


FR 
6013 

G6Ufi 
1920 


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